Topsy Turvy
by Takhira
Summary: Where everything is turned upside-down
1. Chapter 1

_Nothing is as burdensome as a secret.-- French Proverb_

1437-Notre Dame:

The Festival of Fools rang out with cheers, even though the thick wooden doors of the cathedral. Today was a wonderful day. Although it was late, three days to be exact, wonderful news was to be celebrated, the death of a Queen. A Queen, a consort of a cruel man, of a genocidal murderer, a man who called upon God to chase natives from their homes, to slaughter innocents in their houses, to hunt down those even thought of suspicious actions, had died. Catherine of Valois was dead; the traitor lay in an abbey in England, a cruel and oppressive country.

"Have you chosen a name?" the priest asked. It was unusual for him to tend to small ceremonies, but he was the only person inside even the great monument to The Virgin this day.

"Yes," replied Margaret. Her son would be reminded of this day so long as she and her daughter lived. She had seen eight infants pass away, all in her arms, but she knew this one was special. God had chosen to finally give her a son on the very day he ended the life of a deserter, a warmonger, a whore with no loyalties. Margaret's loyalty was to the true king of France, and no strange woman with a stranger background would make it so easy as to hand their beautiful country over to England. No, her son would be reminded of what was stolen away from their country, he would grow up to fight for justice, for to know justice was to know God, and someday, he would fight in glory for justice and the king and he would know nothing but righteousness. "I've decided to name him Claude."

……………………………….

1485-Streets of Paris:

The _Guerre de Cent Ans _had ended long ago. Claude Frollo remembered the day well, indeed that they had won both the war and the right to the land pillaged and stolen from right under the king.

It had ended, but it had not left. No, he had never expected it to leave. It was determined to haunt him, possibly more than any other undeserving Frenchman in all of Paris, maybe even the whole country.

This night was a distracting one, and that was a bad omen. Strange noises came from alleyways, drawing his soldiers in different directions; two groups had reported being led to nearly run right into each other after following strange sounds of a tortured animal, only to find nothing.

Now he was alone, alone with a corpse. Not too far off, his men were gathering another such corpse, a man with his throat slit, off the street. Frollo had seen someone run down the road in this direction and pursued, regretting leaving his horse back in the stables, and all he'd found was a corpse.

He didn't recognize the dead man, but he'd been having flashes of mild confusion, in one instant all his thoughts were wiped away in an instant and he wondered where he was and what he was doing, only to gather it all back up before anyone noticed. He'd been racked by mild chills the whole day as well, and had lost his footing twice today on nothing. One soldier had had the bad judgment to make a comment about the Minister of Justice getting too old for his job, and Frollo had beaten the man before sending him away to be punished in the Palace of Justice. That was the end of that idea.

Frollo shivered as he scanned the shadows, constantly turning to keep from being jumped by anyone from the shadows. He realized his breath was racing and then, he found he couldn't calm himself; any attempt he tried felt like he was suffocating. He shivered again. What was wrong with him? It was indeed October now, but he was never cold, not even during the heavy snows of January. There was another flash of confusion and he shook his head.

For one second too many he forgot where he was and let his guard down. They walked out of the shadows, a tall peasant man confidently tossing a large stone in the air and catching it and tossing it again. "_En_ _el extremo del juego veremos quién gana_," he said as Frollo went for his dagger. At the sound of the Spanish, Frollo knew he should have yelled, and that it was too late. He knew it before the gag was thrown over his face and pulled into his mouth. He knew what the stone was for before the man threw it, he knew before ropes pulled at his arms, yanking them behind his back.

The man threw the rock; it instantly disappeared into the darkness, but even over his heavy breathing, his pounding heartbeat, and his struggles, he heard it sail over a house and hit another behind it. He could hear his soldiers racing to investigate, seeing nothing of his futile struggle to free himself as his hands were tied behind his back and he was pulled into an abandoned building.

……………..

1451-God only knew where:

There were six gypsies in the darkness with him, one behind him, holding his arms behind his back, one with a broken wrist from the way they twisted them further at each blow the other five dealt to him. They seemed to take turns beating on him. Past them, only a few yards away, someone watched impassively, watching for something in him; they wanted him to break, and wondered what would happen, for they were so sure it was only a matter of time, it was only a few more blows and they'd have their answer: begging, sobbing, bribery…

But nothing happened. He felt a rib break under the force of someone's fist, and the sound was heard by the man in the back. Claude thought he was dreaming, that a blow to the head had played with his sight and his mind, but no, the man was indeed illuminated by a nearby fire. He saw the man's face change as he shouted for them to stop. As the gypsies moved away and the man approached, Claude saw he held a torch, making everything around it appear as if in hell, and if one of these people said that was indeed where he was, he would believe them then and there.

As the man walked into view, Claude realized he was no man, he was just a youth, close to his own age. The boy was just slightly taller, unshaven, and his voiced echoed in the mysterious caverns. A long, straight scar over the boy's right eye fell through his eyebrow, missed the organ, and ended just above his cheekbone.

The boy grabbed Claude's face by his jaw and held it forcefully as the torch was held close, so Claude was made to see the fire shine in the other boy's eyes. "What is your name?"

Claude spat in his captor's face. "My loyalty is to the King!" he yelled.

"Funny," the boy said. "So's mine."

Cold steel shot through Claude's abdomen, and he could feel hot blood dripping down his uniform and along the blade. He wondered, vaguely, as everything melted away, who had screamed, because it wasn't him. He didn't even move his mouth.

…………………

1485-In the dark:

Gypsies. He was surrounded by gypsies. There was no light to tell how many, but he was severely outnumbered. He'd been dragged backwards into the building swiftly and then two sets of arms were under his shoulders, coupled by however many were pulling the rope that had bound his arms behind his back.

In a little over a minute, the gypsies had him. He did his best to struggle, trying to loosen the ropes or shake the arms away. He still struggled, at the very least making it difficult for them to hold him down. He could hear banging behind him, just after the arms had left and rope went slightly lax. He'd been tied to the handle of a trapdoor on the floor. He tried to scream past the gag, but all that resulted in was making one of them laugh at him, and so he instantly gave up.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, in some sort of mock-gesture of friendliness, along with a knife at his throat. "I've known dogs that could figure such things out faster than this," a man's voice muttered. "If you haven't noticed, no one has hurt you, dear minister. We'd actually like to keep it that way, and I'm sure you do too. If you do exactly what we want, it'll stay that way. I'm going to take that piece of cloth from your mouth and you're not going to scream. I also want you to stop struggling. Am I understood?"

……………

1456-The hidden alley:

He gripped the sweet brown hair in his filthy hand. He screamed her name over and over, but she was already gone. The gypsies had done this. They had taken her away without any sort of warning, any reason…his hand brushed something pinned in her locks.

Pulling the thing out of her hair, he hated them even more. The gypsies had had a reason. They had killed her justly, his sister had been taken away from him in an act of patriotism.

………………….

1456-Notre Dame:

"To know justice is to know God, and who knows God better than martyrs?"

……………….

1485-In the dark:

Frollo froze. He was afraid of the gypsies. He was afraid to be a martyr. He was afraid of the taste of the cat against his skin again. He was afraid of torture; was afraid of death; and no one brought such things like the gypsies.

His breath had been racing all this time. He almost passed out before the gag was taken away. He choked for air. He panted; he sweated… he felt hot. What dark magic were they cursing him with? The cold knife against his neck was becoming a welcome feeling, sharp cold against the thick, growing heat.

The hand left his shoulder and grabbed the hair on the back of his head, pulling it back and something was pressed to his mouth. Liquid, foul-tasting and almost rotten—he could swear there was dirt in it—and yet, lined with something sweet, washed over his lips and to keep breathing, he was forced to swallow. He knew this trick. Buckets of water, often with anything from salt to human filth, were poured down a criminal's throat, the torture used to force a confession out of him.

Just as he was about to accuse the gypsies of going back on their word, to tell them he had nothing to confess, it was taken away. They didn't want to torture him, they wanted to poison him, to drug him.

His confusion grew worse and he struggled to retain his mental grip on what was happening. But everything began to swirl in his mind. He forgot where he was, he lost his balance and fell sideways to the floor and started to struggle again, forgetting he was bound. He lost his sense of direction; he felt he was sliding off the floor, first one way, and then the other.

Every sensation was leaving him. He was barely conscious of coughing up sputum on the floor, but he did understand the words spoken to him.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claude."

……………………

1456-Notre Dame:

The boy with the scar had become a man, a man with another sword. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claude," he said, drawing the weapon and elegantly thrusting at him.

………………

1485-In the dark:

At the sound of those words, Frollo began to panic.

He couldn't feel where his limbs were. He couldn't feel anything but the need to get away. He thought he was reaching out, he thought he was screaming this time.

He gave one limp yank at the bonds and choked on trying to say something before he fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

•

_The devil looks after his own.-- Proverb of Unknown Origin_

1485-abandoned dungeons:

Gypsies do not have jails. Criminals in the clans are banished or purposely tainted, eventually to have a healer remove the curse or to forever carry the social mark with them.

The underground system of Paris, however, held many strange rooms, abandoned and forgotten pieces of the city. One, not too far off from the Court of Miracles, had once been part of a dungeon to house criminals; it has now been long replaced by a larger, 'more efficient' dungeon.

Three remaining walls and a floor, slanted from ages of being crushed by the city above that had forsaken it, was all that was left of the crumbling mystery. Nothing more than a small set of chains to reveal what the room was ever used for. The only light came from a pathetic candle, and did nothing to light up the features of the two gypsies left to watch their strange 'guest.'

………….

1451-God only knew:

There were two French officers. One had hired her small group for help. He had run down here with the other in pursuit, but the other one was too young. He didn't know exactly what he'd stumbled on or where he was or that there would be allies.

Ambushes back then had little subtlety and were nothing more than surprise brawls. She leapt out at the boy and managed to dodge his weapon. He was too stunned to react until it was too late and by then she held his arms behind him. She bent and pulled on them as he struggled, soon breaking his wrist in the process.

She held him down as the others pounded on him until the other French officer told them to stop. He was just a boy as well, only a few years older. She didn't know what he asked their prisoner, but it didn't matter; the captive spat in his face.

The young boy was not the only one betrayed that day. The short sword went right through the boy and stabbed her, a small cut, but she knew it was only the beginning. She dropped the boy from her arms and ran as their former ally turned to her friends. They were all dead the next day; the younger boy she'd held down was accused of their deaths, which were wholly inconsequential. They were, after all, nothing but gypsies.

…………..

1485-abandoned dungeons:

Now there was an old man in front of her. He was ill, his breath came rapid and strained with each breath; he winced at the pain in his chest and his head. He constantly coughed, hard and loud, spitting up sludge the color of rust.

He was completely unaware of anything but the pain. He did not know where he was, he most likely did not remember anything that had happened recently. His eyes were closed and she could not tell if he was asleep or awake and weak. He did not even realize he was sick.

As any creature who knows it is trapped, who suffers while confused and disoriented, the man fought back, trying to escape. He was weakly fighting against the heavy blankets, possibly trying to run away, possibly trying to fight them off, fearing they were some sort of predator.

The other gypsy was watching him; the woman did little for the man, save for cleaning him up now and then. She was here for when things became worse… and that was what they were doing.

_"Mama!" _the other gypsy cried out. He was struggling to hold Frollo down as he squirmed against something only he could see. His eyes were open, but he wasn't looking at the man in front of him, he was looking at a dream, a memory changed by delirium.

The woman yelled at the other gypsy to fetch a bucket of cold water and he ran off.

Frollo choked and coughed for a long time. He curled in on himself in the blankets.

She placed a hand on his forehead and pulled away immediately, feeling burned by the heat. This was no nightmare, he was hallucinating.

Either by coincidence or that he wasn't wholly separated by reality, he screamed.

He was bound in chains, one to his neck, two from that, each shackling his hands. He was not even aware of them as he pulled against them, shouting something she did not understand.

She grabbed his hands and shoved them against him and pushed him back. She was weak and he was a trained warrior. She was old and had lost most of her strength over the years and he was in a berserk madness of terror. She was losing the battle and he wasn't even fighting her. Not now. He was fighting her and her friends, decades ago.

"Clopin!" she yelled, trying to drown Frollo out for a few seconds.

………………

1452-Court of Miracles:

She lived on the edge of the camp, away from the other gypsies. She was not one of them. She had invited them into her home, risked imprisonment helping many into Paris, and offered all she had to be welcomed into their group.

But now, as the king of their troop approached her tent, she pulled back the flap, it had all changed.

In his arms, he held a tiny child, not even a month old. The swaddling was stained with his own blood, as was their strange and different tradition. The blood had dried only minutes ago according to the color.

"What is his name?" she asked in Spanish. At first, she assumed the child was sick already. She was a healer, though hardly valued by anyone but him and his wife.

"We have named him Clopin," he said. "I want you to be his… they call the term 'Godmother,'" he said. "We want you to watch the children, and to stay with us. This is indeed a dangerous city."

…………………….

1485-abandoned dungeon:

The man returned with the bucket and took over holding the man down before he hurt himself. Clopin had had more luck than she did, but not much. He was unskilled at holding back a madman as well. The man who'd been with her was tall, taller than the minister and much stouter. He had learned since boyhood how to end fights and hold down those too panicked to even be coherent. The man held Frollo down, and just like the others, went completely unnoticed by the frantic judge.

"The heat is making him see things, frightening things," she told the men. "If the heat is not brought down, he will die. If he still panics, he will choke himself or he will no longer be able to use his hands. I must go; I will bring him a cure, but I need time."

She quickly moved the blankets that had been tossed aside back over the frantic man, making sure to tuck them over an old burn in the shape of a fleur-de-lys on his arm. Long ago, he had been branded as a traitor to France.

"I saw that," he said in Spanish, wringing water from a dirty cloth.

She got up and left, almost running as she did

"What is he yelling?" the large man asked Clopin. He couldn't understand a word of what the minister was saying, nor a hoarse whisper interrupted by violent coughing. He knew Clopin could understand. Clopin and most of the other new gypsies.

"He is saying 'The gypsies are going to kill me. Dear Lord in Heaven, protect me from the gypsies! I do not want to die; I do not want to be… something…" Clopin translated. Something about burning… and about 'hearing the Devil's voice again.' "I will have answers; this sounds important."

…………

1451-Palace of Justice Jail:

Claude cringed as he held his injured arm. He had sworn not to show weakness. He had sworn he would take the false accusations with dignity even to the gallows. He did not want to be just another spectacle. The crowds grew bored when there was no begging, no crying, no shouting, no fighting… nothing.

However, he had never known such pain. His back was torn raw, his arm stung all the way down. Branding, a punishment for traitors and vagabonds… he never thought he'd ever be punished so, even falsely.

The pain was keeping him up. He had not slept in days. Later he would be thankful for it, for it kept him from thinking of how he would be executed soon.

Suddenly heard the guards across the dark hall. Just a thief, no doubt. Nothing that could free him.

But then the heavy footfalls traced their way to his cell and the door opened. "You!" the guard yelled. The guard held the same disgusted expression everyone had for him ever since the accusation. He was the worst of the worst. He might as well have denied exposing a true friend with a kiss. The guard walked in and handed him a piece of paper, sealed with both the insignia of the king and that of the Minister of Justice.

He did not take the letter. He just stared at it. He knew it's meaning already. Seconds ago, he was going to die, given a fate another deserved. Now… now it was over. He had already been punished and marked, but now all that was supposed to have been washed away.

He suddenly felt tired. The sting on his arm was not so fierce now. He vaguely remembered singing coming from the other cell. He was free now…

The guard watched him pass out on the floor, the _lettre de cachet_ still in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

_To whom you tell your secrets, to him you resign your liberty.-- Spanish Proverb_

1460-Place de Grave:

Clopin had always been a man of honor. The moment the trapdoor of the gibbet opened and the body spasmed against the noose, he saw no point in such things anymore.

Her name was Nieves, from _Nuestra Señora de las Nieves, _Our Lady of the Snows… Notre Dame herself. She was to be his wife. She had been arrested three days before they were to be wed.

She had been in the ecclesiastical jail for eight months and he was not allowed to see her until the day before the sentence was to be carried out. Her fate had been delayed so long because, by some miracle, she had been found pregnant.

All he had now of her was the baby he held in his arms.

She had been killed over honor. It meant nothing now. But he'd keep his promise to her. She had made him promise he would have her daughter learn to read, all for the secret note she had the nuns write for her and then tuck it away in the child's swaddling.

He was determined to keep that promise. It had nothing to do with honor, it was all about love.

……………………………

1485-abandoned dungeons:

The fever had not yet broken, but as she had said, the medicine had cooled the heat.

For many days, it was quiet in the cell. It was just her most of the time, sometimes her son joined her. There was barely a sound of the clanging chains anymore, only a soft metallic sound as Frollo twitched in his sleep like a dog running in his dreams or as he rolled over, tossing the blankets in the process. More often the violent, wet cough sounded throughout the cell.

Frollo was unconscious for several days. He began to regain the notion of reality, but for the first two days it hardly mattered. He slipped in an out of sleep and he couldn't tell the difference between them. He would groan or make a similar sound that he recognized he liked his company—whoever they were—less than his sickness and adjust the blankets himself, but that was all he managed to indicate he was no longer stuck in his comatose state.

During those days, the woman continued to force him to imbibe the medicine while he was passed out; it was a mix of many concoctions, something for his headache, something for his cough, something for his fever, something for his chills—she said she had never seen him lie truly still—and more to keep him asleep for as long as possible. For all who questioned her, she said she wanted him as well as possible before he was awake.

………………..

1451-Palace of Justice:

_"__Ay qué lindo es pasear por aquí,_

_Cuando el lobo está durmiendo,  
¿Lobo, lobo qué estás haciendo?  
Estoy poniéndome mis zapatos."_

Claude awoke on the floor of the cell and groaned. A hand reached down and pulled him to his feet. Claude barely recognized the soldier, but suddenly understood what was going on as the _lettre de cachet_ was shoved into his hands.

_"Ay qué lindo es pasear por aquí  
Cuando el lobo está durmiendo,  
¿Lobo, lobo qué estás haciendo?  
Estoy poniéndome mi camisa."_

"What is that?" Claude asked at the singing.

"Another prisoner," the soldier said. "Imagine, being saved by a gypsy."

"I don't understand," Claude said, grabbing onto the wall to steady himself. Days of pain and starvation could not be completely erased by a pardon.

_"Ay qué lindo es pasear por aquí  
Cuando el lobo está durmiendo,  
¿Lobo, lobo qué estás haciendo?_  
_Estoy afilando mi cuchillito.  
¿Para qué?  
Para matar a mis ovejitas  
¿Quiénes son tus ovejitas? ¡Ustedes!"_

The singing continued. The same song had haunted him as he was unconscious, thinking it to be his last sleep before his death and that the soldier was nothing more than a dream.

………………………………..

1485-Abandoned dungeons:

_"__Ay qué lindo es pasear por aquí,_

_Cuando el lobo está durmiendo,  
¿Lobo, lobo qué estás haciendo?  
Estoy poniéndome mis zapatos."_

Claude's eyes shot open. Although the woman had been singing the song on and off all day, Claude suddenly realized he was not dreaming those words… they had returned, back from the grave or to join him after he'd been placed in his own.

He did his best, wrestling himself under the blankets and tried to sit up. "Please, no more! Do not sing that!"

The woman next to him shoved him lightly, causing him to fall back. She moved the blankets around him and continued to sing. "_Ay qué lindo es pasear por aquí  
Cuando el lobo está durmiendo,  
¿Lobo, lobo qué estás haciendo?  
Estoy poniéndome mi camisa."_

"No!" he cried out. "No more! Do not curse me with your devil's voice!" He pushed himself backwards until he met the wall. He pushed himself up and at a sudden jerk against his neck and wrist he realized not only was he held in chains, but that the gypsies had taken his clothes and left him with nothing but the blankets. "Do not curse me!" he shouted, then coughed. He pulled the blankets around him, hiding himself as best he could from the gypsy ghost. "Please! I believe in God, His Son, and the Holy virgin!"

To his comfort, the woman stopped singing and went silent. However, a second later she reached out at him.

He tried to flinch away, only to hit the wall painfully.

Her fingertips graced his forehead in what was meant to be a gentle manner, but he was so afraid of her, their very touch stung his skin.

He was almost certain he was in Hell, and any doubts he had were wiped away as she held out a cup to him and tried to push it to his lips. He held his arms in front of his face and pleaded for her to go away and take her magic with her.

God abandons those close to the gypsies.

…………………

1451-Frollo Manor:

Claude refused to leave the house for several months after he'd been pardoned. He did not want to face the rumors. He did not want to see the entertainment of executions. He did not want to hear of any news of the outside.

He was hiding. He was hiding from that song, from the woman, from the gypsies, from the whispers. He did not want to hear of any of them. He wanted to let them all die before he returned to Paris.

As reclusive as he was, the fact that he remained indoors was not disturbing. He sat and spoke politely as he and his sister entertained guests. He either asked not to hear news of outside or excused himself and left for a few minutes. He was known to pray and follow the holidays. He read the Bible and many other books, first asking his sister if they were approved by the church.

He never told her about the frightening song, or anyone about the fact that he knew who she was. When asked early on about him staying in, he replied, "No one can know for certain if they are in God's good graces or not. I feel that I am not, and I wish to regain that uncertainty."

That was before she knew about the nightmares.

……………….

1485-abandoned dungeons:

Clopin found the minister huddled against the wall, shielding his face as the gypsy healer tried to gently pull them down to offer him something in a cup. Frollo was trying to scream, but the he was still sick. The fever was down, but the other symptoms were getting to him. He couldn't finish a sentence without suddenly struck by a fit of coughing or chills that shook his entire body. The old woman was getting more in their conversation, or she would if he could understand her.

"Fabiana!" Clopin yelled.

Both people froze. Fabiana turned to him, nearly dropping the cup in the process. To Frollo, Clopin was hidden in the shadows, and one gypsy was just as frightening as another, perhaps more. Fabiana wasn't armed.

Again, there was only a tiny, pathetic candle in the room, doing nothing but separating dark from slightly less dark. Faintly, Clopin saw Frollo gather the blankets around his body tightly and shiver, perhaps this time in fear.

Clopin angrily dismissed the woman, yelling in Spanish. She hesitated at first, but set the cup down to the side and ran.

Clopin had known, ever since the day Nieves had died, that he was just like Frollo. In fact, he knew what kind of person he had made himself into before he knew anything of Frollo to compare himself to. He was a determined man, too. He would do anything to get his way, to impose his law, his justice, no matter whose blood he had to shed to get it. From what he had heard the man screaming days ago, perhaps Frollo's past had been as stained by death as his.

But what did that matter? 'We must live by the living, not the dead,' Clopin remembered. Fabiana told him that saying quite often and sometimes still did. Well, he'd see just who would be alive to live by after this. As the phrase went 'Whose clutches were iron as much as the bells of Notre Dame…' He never thought it would ever refer to him, especially against Frollo. Then again, he never believed he would find himself in this situation, any of it.

………………………

1451-Palace of Justice:

Claude had been thrown from a sickbed to days of sitting chained up in squalor. The shackles were small, cutting into his wrists and ankles even when he sat still. He was covered in filth, unable to move away. At least they had set his rib and his wrist before throwing him in here, although everyone thought it was a pity they had done so.

He heard footsteps coming closer. No one had come to him in all those days. He had been chained up and left here, he thought to die. Someone was coming. God, what a disgusting sight he'd be. Rags, blood, squalor, starvation, dehydration…. He doubted he could even be looked upon as human.

One person entered the cell. He was just a messenger, though. He waved his hand in front of his nose before pulling out a document from his pocket. "As of June 1st, the year of our Lord 1451, Officer Claude Frollo has been dismissed from the King's Guard and has been found guilty, without the need for a trial, of treason against King Charles VII. He is to be formally punished, according to military law, to be flogged for disobedience and has been sentenced to branding and to be hung by the neck until half-dead and executed by the sword for his crimes."

……………….

1452-Frollo Manor:

Claude woke up shrieking. The dreams would not leave him alone. Gypsies, it was always gypsies. They screamed in triumph, they laughed at him, they tortured him with fire and hot metal, they struck him with shards of bone on cords that hit like lightning as they snapped.

It was past midnight. It was now officially June. The nightmares had been with him for a year now.

Why did God allow these demons to torment him? Was it because he'd been so close to the devil?

………………

1485-Abandoned Dungeons:

Claude's hands were chained to his neck, giving them each no more than a foot of length each. The strange woman speaking in tongues trying to torture him was bad enough, but now… Now it was near pitch black and he was Godknowswhere, weak and humiliated.

The candle was moved closer and from a faint outline, Frollo could see the stranger sitting down in front of him. "Fabiana does not speak French," the man said. "It is not 'witchcraft,' as you were so bent on protesting against. She was trying to tell you it is because you're panicking; it will calm you down. I do recommend you take it."

Frollo's gaze darted to where the cup was left and then back to the man still bathed in shadows. He shook his head.

"If you insist," the man said, almost politely. Frollo wished these people would quit alternating between pretending to be friendly and seriously hinting they were going to torture him. He wasn't going to be fooled by their feint, and if they were just going to threaten him in the next sentence, there was no point in the first place. The man leaned close, intentionally putting his face near Frollo's and letting the pale firelight catch his features. "You really do take us to be demons, don't you?"

Frollo could do nothing but stare. He just looked at the chains for they were all the answer this man needed to answer the question. Why was he mocking him? Panic was threatening to overtake him, or perhaps his sickness was getting the better of him again. He was sweating profusely, panting, the world was threatening to spin. Finally responding to the man, Frollo clasped his hands and frantically began to recite the_ Ave Maria_ in latin.

The man leaned back into the shadows. He pulled out a dagger, the short blade shining in the firelight. "Don't do that, we can't get anything done if I can't understand what you're saying."

Frollo tried to back further into the wall. He gasped and was hit by a short bout of coughing.

"Here's what will happen," the man said, tossing his dagger back and forth between his hands, the light on the blade the only thing visible to Frollo. "We are going to have a little talk, and by 'we' I mean 'me.' You are going to listen and if you behave, I'll take those chains off. If you behave during that, we'll return your clothes—Fabiana said they were… 'cursed' and needed to be cleansed—I'll show you proper facilities, you can clean up, and you will be treated as a guest. Now, as I said, this all hinges on you behaving yourself, so you are going to do exactly as I say. Am I understood? Don't waste your voice, just nod."

Fearfully, Frollo nodded, not risking hesitating. What would they do if he didn't 'behave?' There were worse things they could do with that dagger than just kill him.

"Do not flatter yourself in thinking you're the only one we gypsies have been spying on and don't pretend you don't think we're capable of such things. You, minister, have been sabotaged. The doctors of Paris do not know how to cure the disease you have, but Fabiana does. You've been sick here for a little over a week, and we intend to keep you here until you're better… or you break the rules. We are not asking for money, for kindness, or even for gratitude. To be honest, most of us wished for years you'd be struck by lightning, but it just so happens we like the man who tried to kill you a lot less than you. His name is Alexandre Badeau. Now, I know that you think the story is dubious, for Badeau lives in Rouen, but when you return to your beloved city, you will be notified by your soldiers of not two corpses, but four. Two you've already found and will be told they carry evidence of treason against the king, the others will have been found just outside the city. They died of the very same sickness you have now from mishandling. Badeau is not necessarily after your life, but your job; obviously he sees this to be the easiest way to get it. He may have wealth and power in Rouen, but you keep the peace in the very city the king lives in. I'm sure you can fill in the rest of the details yourself as to what will happen if he does manage to take over your position.

"Now… seeing as we are not friends, you have two choices, and they are both completely up to you: you can lead us, the vagabonds of Paris, who just so happened to save your life and alert you to such news, to fight this man, or you can do it on your own and if you're confident at your skills of fighting blind against an enemy that has already nearly outwitted you."

"Oh, you don't have to believe anything I say, minister. I may be lying through my teeth, I may just be telling a completely fictional story, and you don't have to believe any of it. But then, I don't have to believe anything Fabiana told me about that scar on your arm, about an unfortunate young officer who was beaten and left for dead. You were carried back to the barracks by the same person you chased into a trap full of gypsies. You were accused of treason and punished for trying to blame the boy who had saved your life. You were tortured for crimes you did not commit and sentenced to die, am I right?"

The edge of the blade was against Frollo's bare throat. Nothing that had happened had convinced him he wasn't in Hell. The blade may not kill him, but it would certainly hurt him, and he was afraid of the pain. He winced at that thought. The Saints must all laugh at him. "Where am I?" he asked.

"Just answer the question," the gypsy said. "You wouldn't allow traitors in your beloved Paris, neither would we. Prove your loyalty and you go free, a guest of the gypsies."

"Yes," Frollo answered. "Yes, that is what happened. Yes, she was the gypsy in prison the day I was pardoned, she told them what happened and he left! Badeau ran away! I knew him! He was the one I ran after! Leave me alone! What more do you want from me?"

"All we want is the truth, minister." The blade was taken away and it disappeared into the darkness. "What do you remember about her? If your story does not match hers, then we have a problem. Tell me what you know about her, the woman who saved your life."

Frollo grit his teeth and held back a sneer at those words. That woman had hurt him, she haunted him for years, she was part of the reason he'd been dismissed from the guard, why he'd been sent away. She had given him nightmares, how dare someone say so casually that she had saved his life… even if it was the truth. "I don't remember much, I never saw her," he whispered. He paused to cough into his hand, leaving an icky substance on it when he finished. He didn't wipe his hand; it was the least of his problems. "She is Fabiana, isn't she? She would not stop singing that horrid song back then and she does not now. That song—"

"She says she sings it for you, minister—"

"She was pregnant!" Claude exclaimed. "She was pregnant and pregnant women are not to be executed. I do not know what happened to her or the child. Please, I know nothing of her after that. I stayed away for nearly a year and then I went to a university. I do not know anything more!"

"She ran away, that is what happened. She ventured out once to have a poor traveler spread the word, 'This is Paris, where rich people can make honest money.' It meant 'come to this city and offer help but keep alert.' That year, a group of gypsies came to replace those who had died. Without them, there would only be Fabiana and her young child."

Frollo was thankful the man had gone quiet, but wasn't relieved, especially as he heard a grating metallic sound. Unbeknownst to him, the gypsy had hidden the key to the shackles in the pommel of his dagger. The only locks gypsies were ever fond of were ones they had keys to, and the only keys they were fond of were ones only they knew where they were hidden.

Not surprisingly, Frollo flinched at the gypsy's fingers against his neck as he turned the key. Frollo rubbed his aching neck with his hands, forcing his captor to grab them and pull them away, one at a time, to open their shackles. Frollo's neck and wrists were bruised, despite the large and clumsy devices, and there were small cuts dotting the outlines of where the shackles had been.

Frollo threw up his hands to shield himself from what came next, and the gypsy laughed, the noise eerily bouncing off the stone walls. "You don't trust us minister… or should I say, Claude?" the gypsy chortled, batting Frollo's hands away. "So far you give us no reason to bring out the knives or prepare the gallows, and until that time, as I said, you are a guest among the gypsies!"

It didn't cross Frollo's mind at all that he should share his captor's mood. All he could think of was that the terror had not been good for his health in his condition. He was about to dizzily pass out now if it was over or throw up if it wasn't. "Am I dead?" he mumbled before coughing and adjusting the blankets. If he wasn't, half his mind wanted to be. The other half wanted this particular gypsy dead, then he could get some sleep before being killed.

"I never imagined you could ever be so amusing, Claude," the gypsy laughed. His laughter rang out and echoed in Frollo's head as he passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

_Evil is sooner believed than good.—Proverb of Unknown Origin_

1485-abandoned dungeons:

Frollo woke up on the floor of his cell. Immediately he realized two things: first, trouble does not go away, it just gets in line and some troubles cut before others, for now that he could not find anything to panic over, he was far more aware of the fact that he was sick; two, the chains were missing, which meant the last things he could coherently remember had not been a bad dream… he had no idea if that was good or bad, or even better than the alternative.

He didn't get up immediately. He didn't like what happened when these gypsies thought he was awake. Being asleep around them was unpleasant enough. He concentrated past the layers of throbbing in his head—a headache and a bruise or two, just what he needed right now—but he could not hear any haunted singing. He could hear no voices at all in fact. He contemplated this. He could stay where he was, cold despite the blankets, still with no clothes, wondering how to relieve the fact that it hurt to breathe, which was hindered by the fact that it hurt to think, and possibly make those gypsies curious and invite either the singing woman or even the crazy man… or he could wake up.

They had promised him that they'd return his clothes and he could clean up; if he'd been out of it for over a week and he wasn't drowning in filth, it meant that old gypsy woman had kept him clean. He didn't like that thought, a gypsy's hands all over him.

Even when gypsies were nice, he hated them. Then again, he didn't trust them, even if they kept their promises so far. If a gypsy walked into a forest, he'd beat someone with a branch and blame the tree.

Off in the distance, he could hear voices. Even if they were in French of Latin, he wouldn't be able to translate. The important thing was that someone was close. That meant he'd have to wake up. Damn.

Opening his eyes, he wondered why he bothered. It was pitch black in the cell; he might have better luck seeing if he kept his eyes closed. The candle was gone. If there was someone else around, he couldn't tell.

He sat up, wincing at the blood rush that came with it. Maybe waking up wasn't a good idea.

The voices had disappeared for a while, but the incomprehensible Spanish returned and it was very close when it did.

Frollo gathered up the blankets as close and as high around him as he could. He didn't trust anyone near him while he lacked clothes and he certainly didn't trust gypsies in the dark. This was not a happy combination.

A tiny light suddenly pierced the darkness like a star set on fire. Frollo was forced to drop the blanket with one hand to shield his vision from the tiny piercing diamond as it was brought closer. So far, all they were doing was bringing a candle towards him. There was no need to panic yet, but he was prepared to start.

The candle was set down on the floor next to him, this one slightly brighter than its faint predecessors. It illuminated the features of Fabiana until she left, but also of something left next to him. In the shadows, she said something, short and concise, as far as Frollo could infer, and he saw something moving in a shining arc flying toward him.

At the moment, he doubted he could catch another cold, and so he let the object land in his lap. Picking up the object carefully, he found it was a small bell on a string.

"She wants you to wear it," Frollo heard the voice of the crazy gypsy man. "To cure you."

Starting a few years ago, a debate had begun over how to attend to different maladies. A century before, new theories on how to treat battlefield wounds had washed across most of the Holy Roman Empire, leaving silt of both sides most everywhere unless the church swept one of them away. Frollo didn't want anything to do with such debates and left things up to whatever doctors the closest and highest of the clergy used. Still, a bell was… well, a bell. It was ridiculous to think this could ever cure pneumonia.

Frollo tossed the bell to the side. He didn't want to play games anymore. 'To cure you,' what a sorry excuse; they probably just wanted to put a collar on him and know when he was coming. As far as he could tell 'guest' for gypsies was synonymous for 'pet,' and he's seen a lot of pets treated better than this.

"Not for your cold," the man said. "Fabiana is our best… a _gadje_ like you would not understand. She is very good at what she does. She says you have what we call _tsinivari_ in you, close to what you would call 'demons.' She says she wishes to drive them out."

"I am to be cured of demons by witchcraft?" Frollo scoffed. He actually wanted to go back to being their prisoner. He had some clue as to what they were doing to him then.

"Does that mean that it was witchcraft that cured you of a fever that would have killed you in only a few hours otherwise?"

"If you had anything to do with it," Frollo answered.

"It was witches, then, who washed your clothes. They are right next to you, and I advise you to get dressed in them, because we are not going to give you anything else. When I said your life and our hospitality depended on you behaving, it means you follow our rules."

"They say 'For a fleeing enemy, build a bridge of silver,'" Frollo said. "Would this be the same silver Judas betrayed Our Lord and Savior for?"

"Shut up and get dressed," the man said. "We are leaving; we are not such barbarians as not to grant you privacy. Do not be such a barbarian and to throw our gifts in our face. Outside this cell is a man named Oroitz. He does not speak French either, but he will politely lead you to somewhere much nicer. If you try to leave however, he can easily crush your skull."

……………………….

1451-Before the court of Miracles:

Fabiana had sent the word, Paris was a place for gypsies; she offered and needed help, especially with her little baby girl.

But this new group did not trust her. Her customs were slightly different from theirs, and she did not belong to their clan whatsoever. She had associated with _gadje_, and her loyalty was questionable. French gypsies held loyalty to both Kings, their own and the one of all France, for as much as they questioned and disliked _gadje_ law, they wanted it to protect them, if they found traitor it could be cause for the _gadje_ to slaughter them if she was found out.

Like all gypsies, she had nothing to her but what she could carry. Her gold had been taken when she was arrested. All she had was her daughter. She was an outcast, the worst punishment for a gypsy, and her daughter carried her curse.

She had no choice. She had spent her two months of _marime_ after the birth alone, barely helped by the new clan, and even for the few moments they were around, they refused to speak with her. She needed help, she needed others. She would need to please the clan, or at least their leaders.

The leaders were named Tzan and Jeanne. They were the only ones who introduced themselves to her, though she wondered if those were their real names, or the assumed names they took on for dealing with outsiders. When she approached, Tzan was alone.

"Where is your wife?" Fabiana asked, holding her daughter close to her. If something happened…. She was more frightened for the mother than herself and it showed in her voice.

Tzan just stared at her for a while, wondering something. Perhaps he wondered why she had not heard the news; perhaps he was trying to remember the proper Spanish. His expression held no anger towards her, whatever had happened he did not blame Fabiana for.

"She is pregnant," he replied. This made things difficult. Jeanne was secluded, away from her husband and could only be seen by close relatives, which Fabiana was definitely not.

"I know this is untraditional, but neither of us are harmed by this," she said frantically. "I ask that you take my daughter, marry her to your child, or your next, until you have a son. No _darro_, all I wish is to be free of this curse. You and Jeanne are the only ones who have spoken to me. Please, I do this to serve your clan, not my own in this way."

"What is her name?" Tzan asked.

"Nieves," Fabiana replied, showing him the little girl. "Have someone ask Jeanne if they must; I promise you, there will be no disgrace if you decide not to take her."

But that was not what they decided.

……………………

1485-The sewers:

The candle had been brighter than the other ones used in the cell, but that was like saying tar was lighter when it dried. Frollo prided himself on not needing servants to help his dress, but getting dressed in the dark was not something he was skilled at.

He was angry and embarrassed, having to identify everything slowly by feel, knowing there was no door, just a shape cut into the wall and on the other side was someone who could not only smash his face in, but could wander in and not punch his face in, which was worse.

Frollo found the bell on the floor. Along with it, a small twig and a rock had been strung on the string. Frollo put it in his pocket.

Grabbing the candle, Frollo tentatively crawled out from the cell. He was met by a large man with a torch reaching for him. Frollo was too taken aback by the man and the surrounding environment for his reflexes to kick in and too sick for them to have done any good. The man was tall, an inch taller than him and he was wearing his chaperon. What was truly intimidating, was that the man—Oroitz, wasn't it?—was much stouter than him, all of it muscle. Not only could the man easily crush his skull, but he probably injured people when he sneezed. His size wasn't the only thing that could make shadows run in fear. The man could threaten an ox with his stare, and so far the man had only one expression: boredom.

Behind the man, and behind him, all around them, was nothing but empty darkness. The torch lit up nothing but the two men and a large patch of ground. They were almost floating in space, forsaken by stars.

The man grabbed the candle and waved it out behind him. Then he proved he was capable of at least two emotions, none of which Frollo—and he presumed most anyone else whoever saw him—felt safe around. "_Lobo…_" the man said, pointing at Frollo and then laughed. This was a deep, hearty laugh, a perfectly amused laugh, one he thought everyone and everything around him shared at the time. It made the man a lot less frightening, but a lot more annoying.

"Yes, that's very funny," Frollo said flatly, careful to show no emotion. "Apparently God missed one with the Flood. I'll be sure to tell him and then charter a ship."

The man shrugged, assuming Frollo was talking about the weather or something similarly inconsequential.

They couldn't prove he wasn't behaving if they didn't have proof. Then again, talking to the human—or close to it—equivalent of a wall was only amusing for so long.

The man gestured for Frollo to follow and, seeing no real alternative, he did. Only two options presented themselves: run away and get killed by gypsies, or follow the man and hope he wasn't killed by gypsies.

Frollo was led through a network of tunnels and large, open spaces, all of which were either surrounded by stone walls, or had no visible walls of any kind. They were in some sort of labyrinth, but Frollo couldn't tell where such a place could be. He wondered if he was still in Paris. The place was crazy, some sort of embodiment of randomness. Walls were smooth one second, then jagged another. Wide open spaces turned into thin tunnels. At one point Claude could hear dripping water in the distance of a dry room, and later he stepped in a stream he couldn't hear. There was no pattern to the place, and he soon lost track of where they were going, or had been, or any sort of sense of direction, and yet, he knew they weren't going in circles.

Oroitz not only was built like a brick wall, but talked as much as one as well after his short outburst. Frollo still wondered what was so funny. The laugh was what struck him as odd, and he kept remembering it every time the man stopped as Frollo began to cough or shiver. Sometimes Frollo would try to press on during the fits, but the man would shove him back and forced him to wait until it was over to continue.

At last they came to a cut doorway with a curtain over it on the other side. Oroitz pulled the curtain aside and gestured for Frollo to go ahead.

Frollo shook his head.

"Oh, don't be such a big baby!" someone yelled from the other side, yanking Frollo through the entrance before the man could do anything about it. As it turned out, it was the man from before, whom Frollo finally recognized as a local puppeteer. Was he sure he wasn't dead?

The puppeteer had let go of his hand just after pulling him through, and thus not only hit Frollo's head on the doorway and knocked his hat off in the process, but sent him tumbling to the floor just after. 'Guest' indeed.

"What are you doing on the ground, you'll never get a good view from down there," the puppeteer commented as Frollo stood up, rubbing his throbbing head.

Frollo wanted to go back to his own world, where the worst thing to happen was that someone else died. Standing up, Frollo suddenly felt sick to his stomach again.

In front of him a whole landscape of gypsy tents and carts and crates and fires spread out before him. Every single gypsy had stopped what they were doing and stared at him. They were watching him, they were all watching him. An entire city of gypsies had their gaze on him.

Frollo went numb, save for the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to think, other than to feel scared, something that he knew should happen, but didn't hit him until later.

So many gypsies, all staring at him as if he were some sort of unclean object, like leper who had wandered into their house.

He was so taken aback, he failed to notice Oroitz trying to hand him his hat. Oroitz wasn't bothered by people being terrified out of their wits, and so just set Frollo's hat on his head and waited for the man to come back to reality.

The puppeteer, thinking all this amazingly funny, gave Frollo a hearty pat on the back and laughed. "Best take it in now, you'll never see it again after you leave, I promise you that. And you'll never be a guest here again. Welcome, to the Court of Miracles!"

……………………

1456-Back Alley:

Nieves was a thief. She tricked people. She told them she was lost and pretended to cry and when they bent down to help her she hugged them and said all she wanted was her mother and took their money.

Every gypsy works for their clan. The _gadje_ are unclean, ignorant, and intolerant.

She was waiting in a dark corner of the market, ignored behind several ponies, a horse, and an ox. A pony… wouldn't her step-parents be proud? Wouldn't auntie Fabiana be please if she found a way to sneak a pony down to their court. If only she could think of how before the owner returned. Untying it was the easy part.

She was torn from her thoughts of larceny as she learned just how horrible _gadje_ could be. That day, she saw her step-parents, the two who had raised her, the parents of the boy she was to wed one day, murdered in the street. They slit the throat of a young woman, too late to notice the young man approaching her. He turned their weapons on them and grabbed the woman and sobbed.

She saw him reel back in shock, and then tear at her step-father's clothes before running off, screaming.

She stepped out into the street. The dead lay in an alley, jutting off the sunny streets, nearly hidden by the angle it that buried it between two buildings. She screamed. Later, she would hear the name of the young man responsible… Claude Frollo. It meant nothing to her, but she vowed to remember it from now on. They were dead because of him.

……………….

1485-Court of Miracles:

The puppeteer tugged on Frollo's wrist, but Oroitz grabbed his in turn. Frollo turned to the two men and their silent argument. Oroitz won with only a slight scowl on his face and gained the right to take Frollo's wrist, handling the man as if he were glass. The fact that they had been fighting over who got to drag him around worried Frollo.

Damn gypsies, they couldn't even make up their minds! First they attack him and his family, then they're surprised when he's not too fond of them and they don't see why throwing bricks at him doesn't improve his mood. First they chain him up, and then they drag him everywhere. First they threaten to kill him, and then they make him regret the fact that they didn't.

The puppeteer led him them to one of the many tents. Looking too closely at any of them made Frollo think he'd soon go blind. Did they make them this bright thinking they could find them in the dark? "This is my home, humble, but you are welcome to it," the puppeteer said, dramatically gesturing to the tent.

Frollo just stared. He wasn't insulted that he'd be sleeping in a tent. He'd slept in jail and the rooms at the university were infamous for being uncomfortable. He just didn't trust these people and nothing was going to make him. The fact that they assumed he should unnerved him more than if they'd beaten him or at least accepted the fact that he'd rather make befriend his way out of a bear-baiting pit.

"Oroitz or Fabiana will be standing guard outside and one of them will follow you if you go anywhere—don't go too far, mind you. If you need anything, ask me, those two aren't good at charades."

The puppeteer took advantage of the fact that Oroitz had let go of Frollo's wrist and dragged him inside. The interior was surprisingly furnished, though mostly with blankets. Blankets were strewn everywhere, many were bundled up and covered with others to make a large cushion to lie on, others were rolled up into pillows, many thrown about the place, shoved away from the middle to create a space to sit or walk. Somewhere, buried under more blankets, was a trunk or box from the shape. No doubt it held everything that wasn't a blanket.

"Every time someone wants something from you, they think they can impress you with a blanket," the puppeteer muttered. "I can't even give them away." The puppeteer pressed on, wondering if Frollo had gotten the hint that this was supposed to be a conversation, or if the man didn't feel like talking. "I don't suppose anyone ever gives you things you don't need any more of."

Frollo spun around and stared at the man, shocked at the words.

Clopin had two talents, getting on people's nerves and knowing when he'd been on the last one of them. He'd just gone from one to the other. "Anything I can do to put you at ease?"

"Please go away," Frollo managed, his throat stinging all over as he did.

The puppeteer shrugged before leaving.

Frollo sat down on the blankets, far away from the entrance to the tent, and finally allowed himself to cry. He was weak, he was dizzy, his head wouldn't stop throbbing, he felt sick to his stomach, but even more he was frightened, humiliated, lost, and as much as his captors denied it, a prisoner.

……………………….

1456-Hidden Alley:

"Oh, Claude, it is so good to have you back in Paris," Annette mused, here, I know a shortcut to the market!"

Claude's sister grabbed his wrist and dashed into and alley that was barely noticeable form the main road. Only by staring straight at it did the alley actually appear to you. In truth, there were fewer gypsies this way, but it was a shortcut nonetheless.

Annette had been twelve, almost marriageable when he was born. Now, with their parents gone, she continued to look after him, despite the fact that he was nearing twenty.

"Have you found anyone you wish to court in Orleans?" she asked, taking out a pin from her hair to adjust her veil. Her swift movement and the jolt from when she moved knocked the veil and the garland that was meant to hold it down off her head and back along the alley.

"Me--?" Claude asked as the veil and garland tumbled away. He ran off to fetch it before it was trampled in the streets.

Pouting, she reached up to pull the other useless pins from her hair in order to start again at her hair. "So much for a—" she stopped talking and screamed, alerting her brother too late.

Claude turned, the reluctant veil and garland in his hands and saw a gypsy of all people plunge a knife into Annette's throat as another grabbed her purse to inspect it, dumping the contents on the ground.

Claude ran at the two, fueled by rage, grief replacing it even before he got to them.

The female gypsy, who had stabbed Annette tried to strike him in self-defense, but he was too fast for her to bring the dagger down properly before he tackled her. The two rolled halfway down the alley before Claude rose from her and charged the man, who had decided to stand and fight instead of man stopped short with his dagger; Claude didn't know he saw his wife lying dead, her own dagger stabbed just under her jaw awkwardly. Claude grabbed the man's dagger, still seeing it as a threat, and slammed it into the man's chest before shoving his sister away.

"Annette!" he screamed. "Annette!" Only now did he realize it was too late and it always had been. She'd been dead before she hit the ground, the wound was so deep.

The rage was gone, burnt away in a flash. His limbs felt heavy as he cried, one hand combing through her hair. His finger hit something and he pulled it out of her hair.

It was very large pin, topped with a pearl, wrapped around it was a small piece of paper. In tiny flowery writing, Claude recognized the name 'Calais.'

But Calais was still a territory of the English, the last part of the country never reconquered in the war.

Angrily, Claude snapped the pin in half and shoved the paper into the jerkin of the dead gypsy man and he ran. If he had stayed longer, just enough to have read one more name from the note, he would have fled somewhere other than Notre Dame.

He tore down the streets, covered in blood, tears clouding his vision. He had no idea how, after an absence of four years in another city, he knew how to make his way to the Cathedral, but he managed, running faster as he heard someone screaming about murder behind him.

Before he even reached the steps he began shrieking, which caught the attention of the new archdeacon, just recently ordained he would hear later. Claude clumsily ran up the steps and his knees caved in under him. He was too frantic to know that the deacon caught him. He was too terrified to even know the man was there.

The deacon tried desperately to calm the screaming boy, trying to hold him down as he held up his hands and waved them. The blood all over the boy was barely drying and it took a long time for him to recognize the boy was actually screaming real words.

"Forgive me!" Claude was screaming at the top of his lungs, oblivious to the archdeacon trying to ask him what he was talking about. "Forgive me!"

Claude's face was raised upwards and he struggled to push forward against the larger man, despite his legs being too weak. It was then that the deacon realized the boy was screaming at the statues above him, piously perched above the tympany of the portal of the virgin.

Eventually Claude lost even the energy to scream and fell, weak and helpless into the deacon, sobbing into his alb.

…………………

1485-Clopin's tent:

Clopin returned hours later; Oroitz had said Frollo hadn't even tried to leave. That actually wasn't a good sign. Anyone with a slightest bit of good health will at least try to get out of a bad situation, making sure the jailer wasn't lying about locking the door or seeing if the bars really were too small to fit through.

Clopin shoved the flaps of the tent entrance and walked in, sighing at the sight before him. Frollo had done nothing wrong; in fact, he was taking things better than Clopin anticipated. He thought Frollo would have tried to run away, attempt to sneak out under the tent and learn that Oroitz was not so easily fooled. In fact, Clopin anticipated a fist-fight with the minister once the man could tell which way up was and stay awake for at least five minutes.

Clopin had no idea Frollo had been crying but it didn't matter. It was a sad thing to see and all the minister had done was fall asleep on one of the blankets. He hadn't even used another as a pillow, he slept on his arms. He had taken off his pauldrons and collar, as well as his shoes and hat and left them in a little pile on the edge of the free space. Frollo was shivering violently, having neglected to put any blankets to use. He was probably sleeping on one more to keep from being stepped on than for comfort. In the light of two lanterns hanging on a cord near the top the tent, Clopin noticed a bluish tint to Frollo's skin.

Clopin sighed. "Not like you were going to be much of a conversationalist anyway."

Clopin grabbed some spare blankets and gently laid them over the sleeping Minister of Justice, who began to cough. He wondered if it was pity or just the desire not to have a corpse in his tent when he woke up. He never thought he could ever pity Frollo, then again, he never thought he'd need the man's help, or go to any trouble to keep him alive.

He hadn't heard much of Frollo's story and didn't want to. From what Fabiana had told him, though, it looked like they'd started the whole mess and Frollo had a very good reason to see gypsies as his enemy, and the kisses of your enemy are deceitful.

Damn, the one time he wasn't trying to be deceitful, or the enemy.

…………………………

1460-Everywhere:

As far as anyone can tell, even from talking to the experts, the gypsies and the _gadje_ have been fighting since, or at least no later than, before the beginning of time. The gypsies didn't like the _gadje_ and the _gadje_ didn't like the gypsies. Each side felt the other was disgusting, insulting, crazy, nonsense-worshipping, and evil. Things would only continue to get worse. The gypsies made more gypsies and the _gadje_ made more _gadje_. The two were crowded closer and closer together and they could only think of pushing and shoving worse than before. Then someone figured out the secret to weapons, which was they didn't' have to be professionally made and use up a lot of resources or even money, but so long as it was hard or shard and you could make it airborne in the general direction of someone you didn't like, you almost never ran out. And so there was no more pushing and shoving, unless it was to get a better angle to lob stones or glass or knives Then, when language was put to greater use, stories of the other side began spreading, turning dislike and disgust into fear and hatred. Then, when both sides thought the other was the worst it was going to get, someone invented—or possibly remembered and passed some around, not wanting to forget again—alcohol.

Soon, no one had any idea who threw what, who was hitting who, or who was dead until it was too late. No one knew what made it happen, but they were sure that not only did the other side deserve it, but they had started it in the first place.

Frollo had not been warned that such things, which other people considered 'nuisances,' came with the job of Judge. Most Judges gave orders to the captain to deal with rowdy gypsies, the captains chose officers, who chose lower ranking officers, and in the end, it all landed on one person who decided to take the long way around the alley, or let those involved in the fight sort things out themselves a little while first. Frollo took the incessant problems with the gypsies personally, and they, in turn, couldn't make up their minds about him. Some of the time he was a crazed maniac, a boogeyman that frightened adults and children alike, and sometimes he was the most entertaining joke they had ever seen since people richer than them were thrown in the stocks. Needless to say, Frollo never saw anything funny about it. He took his job as judge—and later Minister of Justice—seriously, which made everyone tired, him, the soldiers, the gypsies… but that just made everything funnier to everyone if you knocked his hat off with a cabbage, and that just made him more determined to see everyone punished, which made the next joke even better… and so the circle was started only a few days after Frollo had been appointed Judge, a snake eating it's tail out of anger instead of a need for nourishment.

…………………….

1485-Court of Miracles:

Frollo remembered running, but not fast enough. He was caught, tackled to the ground and held down, his struggles and screams ignored and laughed at. He felt chains around him as his clothes were ripped off. He saw firelight on blades, on one in particular held up and thrust down at his neck—and then he woke up.

He couldn't escape the gypsies no matter what he did. He couldn't forget them even while asleep.

As reality reminded him of how physically and emotionally uncomfortable he was, Frollo was suddenly reminded as to why he woke up in the first place. Ever since he had even the slightest idea what was going on, he just wanted to go home. He missed his soft bed, he missed his large warm fireplace, he missed how safe he felt with his dagger, easily accessible through slits in his surcoat, he missed his servants, mostly because he could tell them to go away and they would stay away until he actually wanted something, and he missed the fact that there were no gypsies whatsoever. Now, he realized the fact that he knew where the privy was at home should be added to the list.

After fishing around in the dark, he slipped his shoes on and carefully made his way out of the tent, only half positive he knew where he was going. He was disoriented and he was almost falling asleep again. He was happily surprised that he made it out without falling over, but then he found another obstacle.

As much as he preferred Oroitz to… whoever the puppeteer was… even if he laughed at him, the man knew no French and he knew no Spanish. Neither of them knew charades. Frollo groaned, immediately regretting it. His throat burned and was scratched raw from coughing all night. His head told him it was already hard work to work his feet and keep him upright, something he shouldn't be doing in his condition in the first place, and that thinking was asking too much. His chest ached just to be heard along with the rest of him.

As Frollo rubbed his head, the huge man grabbed his other arm and slowly tugged him along to a nearby tent.

"Um, no, that's not exactly—" Frollo started, but Oroitz shoved him inside, where he landed on the floor. Frollo hoped this wasn't going to become a pattern.

Picking himself up, he found that not only had the man brought him to Fabiana's tent, but that someone else lived here too. Fabiana was waking up to see what the commotion was as the other inhabitant, a woman who might have been attractive if she had a bath and didn't look at him as if he was something found on the bottom of a shoe, approached him. "_Lobo_," she muttered, and scoffed at the word.

"Yes, I get a lot of that," Frollo whispered, which sent him into coughing.

The woman backed away, but her expression stayed."It means wolf," she scolded, sharing his feelings that everyone should speak French and not Spanish, only in reverse. "What in the world do you want at this time of night?"

"I just wanted to know if you people had ever heard of a privy or a latrine," Frollo mumbled.

"You should have asked Clopin," the woman said.

"I didn't have time before he grabbed me," Frollo protested quietly. He also hadn't wanted to and still didn't think it was a good idea getting a man who seemed not only possessed but also under the influence of something he'd stolen from the apothecary to help with the current situation.

"Esmeralda?" Oroitz asked the young woman as Fabiana shoved her way to get to Frollo.

"No, I don't want to!" Frollo protested, as Fabiana reach for him and put her hand on his forehead.

Esmeralda said something in Spanish to Oroitz, then to Frollo. He had no idea what she said, but he was sure it was insulting. "Wash your hands afterwards," she scolded him in French before Oroitz dragged him out of the tent, finally understanding what the man wanted.

He didn't want to go home anymore. Even at home the silly rumors these people would start would get him. He couldn't hide anywhere now.

…………………..

1460-Place de Graves:

No one really noticed, which was all the more comfort, for Frollo did not go to the execution. His first trial as judge and he had sentenced a gypsy woman to death. It was months later that she died, the child she had been carrying taken away by another gypsy. Frollo wanted nothing to do with any of the case.

The ghost of the gypsy long ago was haunting him, another pregnant woman who would be sentenced to die under any judge. Well, he'd have no part in it. He stayed in another part of the city, looking for those who would take advantage of everyone deserting their homes for the entertainment Frollo had given them.

Maybe he couldn't chase the gypsies away, but he could chase the ghosts away, so maybe he could chase the dreams away.

………………………

1485-Notre Dame:

The archdeacon of Notre Dame was getting worried. One week ago, Claude Frollo had disappeared from Paris. Somehow the whole city was falling apart without him. The soldiers, even under the captain, had no direction. Bugging the gypsies brought squabbles but no answers. People began coming to the cathedral to have a safe place gossip. Rumors were spreading. People said he was dead. Some said he was murdered. Everything had to do with gypsies. The only one that didn't blame them blamed the captain fro murdering Frollo and trying to make it look like the gypsies did it. Soon there was talk of demons out at night, saying the devil was after everyone. Everyone was afraid and couldn't be convinced otherwise. It was as if they wanted to be scared.

Outside of the church was bad enough. Inside the church, it was one large emotional headache. The archdeacon had taken over Frollo's duties of feeding the boy, and wondered how Frollo talked to him about anything. The boy would sneak down to the main floor when no one but the clergy were about, and pray at the altar. The archdeacon had no idea how to comfort the boy, and now he had no idea how to comfort himself. He was having nightmares now, memories of funerals and a young man covered in blood sobbing on him. He had made a promise a long time ago to watch over Frollo, to help him and guide him. He blamed Frollo for the most part for what he considered near-failures, but even in light of those times, this was troubling. He himself couldn't fight the thought that the gypsies had gone too far, that maybe they had started a war that he had been telling Frollo did not exist.


	5. Chapter 5

_Three Spaniards, four opinions.—Spanish Proverb_

1485-Clopin's tent:

There is a phrase 'other times, other customs.' Frollo had learned a lot of other customs recently, and then had been abandoned in the tent to shiver and cough. For people who were dirty and whose clothes were scant and ragged nearly every time he saw them, the gypsies were obsessed with keeping clean, with many, many rules, and only half of them made sense.

Anything below the waist was considered dirty, even one's knees, and one was required to clean their hands after touching them. One had to clean up after putting something in their pockets, after adjusting their shoes, after making their bed. Frollo didn't see why he had to follow so many rules; everything he touched was considered dirty anyway because he was an outsider. Most of it was going to be burned or smashed.

For the next few days, Claude sat in a corner of the clear space in the tent until he was too dizzy, in too much pain, or passed out. Clopin would say something Frollo thought was random or ask him if he wanted anything and Frollo would just stare or shake his head. Clopin complained the most noise the man made was coughing and snoring. Frollo seemed offended that the gypsy said he snored, but didn't say anything.

One day, Clopin's desire to actually get a few words out of the minister, spurned on by his boredom, inability to back away from a challenge, and the fact that after a few drinks he thought a few more would help his endeavor, got the best and worst of both of them.

Clopin stumbled into the tent and waved a new bottle of wine in the minister's face, and asked, half the sentence in Spanish, if he wanted any.

Frollo waved the smell of Clopin's previous attempts to use alcohol to figure out a conversation topic. Clopin ignored him.

"Not on your throat, eh?" Clopin asked.

Frollo didn't answer and Clopin didn't seem to notice.

"You're shaking too much, wrap up in something," Clopin said, walking over to his own side of the tent and ceremoniously sitting on the pile of blankets. "Go on."

Frollo's list of reasons he wished he was back at home was growing. He added 'no mind games' to it as he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around himself tightly. It barely did anything for his chills and the gypsy kept on talking. The man gave him orders in the same tone as he tried to be amiable and failed. Frollo wondered if he wished the man would threaten him like before, but contemplating that just gave him a big headache. He was sure the gypsy was doing it on purpose.

Clopin pulled the cork of the wine bottle out with his teeth and spat it into a corner. "If you change your mind, just speak up, it's not going to last long," he said, trying to tease Frollo, who secretly wished he were deaf. Clopin ignored how miserable Frollo looked and took a long drink from the bottle. "This isn't really how we do these things. If you've got someone somewhere, we wouldn't usually keep them from you. I mean, normally. Can't have two of you banging around here or scheming together. As far as I heard, you're pretty lonely where you live. You got a girl somewhere else, maybe? Thinking about her?" Clopin chuckled and took another large drink of wine. "If you got one, she must be blind to be with you, you're older than… than the curse, and that's older than anything else I know of." There was a pause as Clopin waited. "Well?"

Frollo took awhile to backtrack through the muddy jumble of sentences to figure out exactly what Clopin was asking. "No. In fact, I've never courted anyone," Frollo whispered, his voice grating on his throat.

"Well, I can't say I'm lucky either," Clopin said, leaning back. He swished the remaining wine back and forth in the bottle and stared at it as if it was one of the most amusing things he'd ever seen. "I was going to be married, but… what do you people call them? Set up for marriage when you're kids or haven't even seen the girl? Well, we do that sometimes. We were both just babies when my parents took her in. They died when I was young, so Fabiana took care of use both. She was the girl's mother and my parents thought she was the best to watch us, even if she was from a completely different clan." Clopin chugged most of what was left of the wine before continuing. "Her name was Nieves, she was… she was an amazing woman, beautiful, lovely voice, could move like… like something really good… rather useless around the place though, that wasn't good. Things didn't work out. Something... it just didn't happen. She was like a sister to me, and I don't think I'd ever see her as anything else. She's gone though… killed. Tried and sentenced to die after she had a baby, some _gadje's_ baby. Poor little baby Esmeralda… don't think Fabiana's told her yet." Clopin finished the last of the wine and tucked the bottle away.

"I had a sister once," Frollo said. "After I was pardoned, I stayed inside for nearly a year. At the end of the year, my mother was advised to sent me to a university. I spent four years away from Paris, never seeing my family. My parents died while I was gone, and my sister was all I had. The very day I returned to Paris, she was murdered in an alley in front of me by two gypsies. I fought them and they were killed in the skirmish, but it didn't matter. She was dead before I got to her."

Now it was Clopin's turn to watch Frollo, wide-eyed and alert to the man's every move.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, but I am hardly that old."

……………………………….

1452-Everywhere:

Even when Claude was so young the theatre in his mind would play out scenarios concerning girls, showing him pulling their hair and they would turn around and ask why and all he could possibly answer was that he didn't know, he knew it was a useless endeavor. His father had been off in the war and Claude never knew what the man looked like, but his mother was elegant and his sister was beautiful. He couldn't quite put the math together, but he knew the end result was not an attractive looking son.

His mother had called it a 'roman nose' saying it was very noble-looking, but he noticed people flocked more to his sister, whose nose was small and petite. Whatever beauty and regality there was to inherit, she got it all and he was left looking a mess of what was leftover. She had golden amber eyes, whose pupils resembled dark honey or rich mead, while his were dull and colorless. She had gleaming curls of dark brown hair that caught the light any which way she wished and she knew every trick there was to do with it; she could braid it, pin it, wrap it, coil it, twist it, and do things he had not idea what the words for them were. His hair, however, would barely relent to being brushed. It wanted to swirl in different directions, it was a dark brown that was nearly black that always looked like it had a greasy sheen. He could hear the insults, but could never stop them. There were vulgar words about his hair, but he was more offended when people spoke of his hair resembling that of the gypsies.

His nose, his eyes, his hair, his strange colored lips, the way he grew into a man not in a gradual transition like his sister grew into a woman, but in an awkward, almost thumping way of different parts of him growing at different speeds.

He had looked silly as a child, ungainly as an adolescent, and unfortunate as a man. His sister had turned down men who would refuse to let her see her baby brother, or who couldn't get along with his quiet, patient, and observant demeanor. He was a burden to his whole family.

Thus it was an unsurprising blessing to be sent away to the university. At first he missed his dear sister and his beloved mother, but soon he discovered a wondrous pleasure that had been since hidden from him. Literature was some newfound written music to him. It tricked you, played with your emotions, so long as you were smart enough to catch the clues hidden between the letters. It was a joyous experience and the better writers could weave their make-believe stories to sound truer than the bland writers of non-fiction. Reading was some mix of an art form and an indulgence. Essays and mathematics and theories could be felt, they had a shape and a texture to themselves. They were individually a whole new experience and he loved each and every one. Women could wait, he decided, and that decision carried on for decades until he had forgotten about it.

………………..

1485-Clopin's tent:

Clopin wondered how someone—anyone—could sleep going through what Frollo was going through. He had wondered if the man slept at all days ago, but just as doubt was settling in, Frollo woke up, terrified by something imaginary, and then curled up into a shaking little ball until he fell asleep again.

Frollo had at first been healthy enough to sit and stare and twitch at Clopin coming into his own tent. But Clopin had planned on the man just being angry, something which he'd set aside one he realized what little pride he had left wasn't going anywhere. While Clopin had expected the man to hold out for a while and then fall into resignation, he hadn't expected the man to see nightmares everywhere and then fall into despair and a relapse.

Frollo's rapid breathing hadn't calmed, although Clopin was sure fear was making it worse. Frollo seemed to cough throughout the day. It had gotten worse recently, and Clopin was sure his fever and headache were worse as well. Frollo stayed in bed all day now, feeling either too ill or too scared to move back to his little spot at the back of the tent. Between panting and coughing, any short bit of silence Frollo managed was interrupted by strange noises, as if coming from a frightened animal.

This was the third time in almost as many days that Claude had woken up in fear and looked around, scared something was lurking in the shadows and that it really was there this time.

"Go back to sleep, there's nothing—" Clopin sat up. While Frollo wrapped himself in several blankets and was rather quiet, Clopin could actually hear singing. Frollo went back to coughing and the song was hard to hear again. The quiet lasted long enough that Clopin could tell that whoever was singing it was getting nearer… and they weren't Fabiana. Clopin got up and lit one of the lanterns. "What idiot—"

Esmeralda wandered in, holding a cup and still singing and Frollo let out a sharp gasp as he noticed her.

"You two should really stop meeting like this," Clopin said.

"Fabiana is worried about his fever," she said.

Clopin looked over at Frollo, then turned back to Esmeralda to talk to her in Spanish. "I really have known dogs smarter than him."

"Dogs are filthy creatures, and so's he," Esmeralda said calmly.

"Must you do this now?" Clopin asked, hiding concern. Something was up and apparently the minister wasn't supposed to know about it.

"The sooner the better. Fabiana wants a _divano_."

"It's not going to work," Clopin said, still keeping a straight face and talking in Spanish. "He was almost crying the last time Fabiana tried to give him something. I was going to wait until morning, he should be weak enough not to fight back much by then."

"They say if you kick a dog enough, he'll think he did something wrong.," Esmeralda said. "And that when you have a young hunter, you need an old dog." She turned to Frollo and began speaking in French.

"I'm sorry for singing that," Esmeralda said, walking over to Frollo. "You shouldn't be scared of such a song."

Frollo didn't answer. He focused on avoiding her hand as she tried to put it on his forehead.

She gave up and pulled a piece of paper out from her cleavage.

"Wonderful, now he's scared and confused. One or the other was hard enough to handle," Clopin commented flatly in Spanish.

Esmeralda unfolded the paper and held it in front of Frollo's face. "Can you read this?" All Esmeralda knew about the paper was that her mother had left it for her. No one had told her anything else of her parents.

Frollo rubbed his head as he tried to focus on the fuzzy letters. Too many things were settling into place at the moment and this was one of the few times he shouldn't be figuring out jigsaw puzzles. He had a mind made for solving riddles and the job of judge and later Minister of Justice was very good at providing those. However, this made him dislike most captains and soldiers and even some judges who couldn't figure out the simplest of problems according to the most obvious clues. At the moment, he did not need to know who Esmeralda was. He didn't even like her existing. He really didn't need to know she was third in a long line of gypsy tormentors. As he read the letter in his mind, he realized she was about to be initiated into the family tradition.

"You tell me what it says and I'll tell you about the song," Esmeralda cooed, if such a thing could be cooed.

Frollo shook his head. After a long bout of coughing, he answered her. "I can't. I mean… it would be best if the archdeacon at Notre Dame read it. He can explain why. Wait…" He took a moment longer to finish coughing again. "Do not tell anyone that I am… wherever it is I am. You people do not have custody of me and never would. Tell everyone I am on the other side of the city. Do tell them that I am sick."

"Don't want Badeau to be able to plan very far ahead?" Clopin asked in French.

Frollo stared at him as if he were a piece of furniture he hadn't noticed. A scary bit of furniture.

"I get there in the end," Clopin said, shrugging.

Frollo suddenly realized the significance of two gypsies in the tent with him. Although Clopin hadn't done anything since he'd shown him the tent, it didn't convince Frollo the gypsy wouldn't start something sooner or later. Frollo had tried to keep his eye on Clopin when he could and pretended he didn't exist when he couldn't. Now there were two enemies skilled at playing with his head and he couldn't keep track of them.

"Here," Esmeralda said softly, pushing the cup towards Frollo, who tried to lean away from it. It was obvious to Clopin the first day he'd shown the minister his tent that the man considered one gypsy slightly worse than having all his teeth pulled and two gypsies was slightly worse than having his teeth pulled by a blind man. Clopin wondered why Esmeralda wasn't cluing in. "It'll make the nightmares go away," she said, finally getting it, or at least part of it.

Frollo's brain skidded to a stop. He liked Esmeralda near him less than he liked Clopin, and he liked to confuse him the way a cat likes to play with yarn. This was a female gypsy. It was always female gypsies that caused him the most trouble. Fabiana wouldn't leave him in peace, some woman had killed his sister, another woman had been the first trial he'd presided over as a judge, and that damn female had to die on the steps of Notre Dame and get him in trouble… He didn't want anymore gypsy women within several feet of him, let alone trying to do only-God-knew-what to him.

"It's not poison and it's not witchcraft," Clopin said. "If we wanted to, we wouldn't bother asking you."

Tentatively, Frollo reached out and took the cup. Once he began sipping at the contents—wincing at the bitter taste that someone had tried to cover over with brandy and something sweet—the two gypsies left, pretending they had business elsewhere or at least that they'd leave him alone as a reward for taking the drink.

………………

1460-Palace of Justice:

In the first minutes of the first trial Claude Frollo presided over, and already he missed his old, boring, barely-any-class-to-it job as a notary.

A gypsy woman was screaming at him, and presumably other people, in at least two languages and neither of them were French. Her clothes had practically been shredded, but until there was an actual verdict, no one was going to do a thing about it.

It only got worse from there. Everyone had to wait until she quieted down to proceed. The woman was hardly coherent in French and no one could translate any other language she spoke. He was told by some soldiers that the woman had killed three men and injured another. Oh, and it would get even worse. A soldier had dragged her behind a wagonwright's building and raped her. She grabbed a half-made wheel and struck him and then dropped the wheel once she found a lathe. She smashed his head in and ran down the streets, screaming, fighting two other guards and injured the one who managed to pry the lathe out of her hands.

The worst part was, had to deal with this because no one else wanted to deal with it. He was new and low-ranking and thus torturable with the dregs of court cases no one else wanted to think about, let alone handle. He got this one because she was a frantic raped gypsy woman who had no hope and no clothes and spoke almost no French.

After five attempts to explain the situation, from three people including him, it dawned on her that there was no way out of a death penalty for three murder charges and trying to injure soldiers, and it dawned on him and several others that she knew French and was actually quite smart, she just wanted to find a way out by playing dumb.

Immediately upon finding there was no way out, she suddenly went back to screaming, this time in French. She screamed for help. She screamed that she was pregnant and they could not kill her child.

Frollo did the only thing any judge could do in that situation. You sent the woman off with other women in the courtroom and they decided… or found out. He didn't want to know. All he did know was that this situation scared him. Another pregnant gypsy bound for death, on his first day as Judge.

The major thought roaming around in Claude Frollo's head was that he wanted to find someway of getting revenge on the archdeacon—someone had written an 'anonymous letter' recommending him as being selected as a Judge. The archdeacon, though good-natured, failed at being anonymous at anything. He was just a bit too… there… or not there at all, depending on which would make your day worse.

In the back of his brain was a different thought. It was careful, it didn't want to draw too much attention, but it wanted to be known. Anywhere he went, there was no escape from gypsies. They'd found a target they wanted to stick with and nothing save a miracle from God would make them choose otherwise. He was going to be haunted by them for the rest of his life.

…………………..

1485-Notre Dame:

The church—or in this case, cathedral—should be safe from rumors. It, being a house of God and worship and submission to him, should be safe from a great many things.

Should.

The church was not safe from a great many things, including its own failings. The archdeacon of Notre Dame had long ago made a promise to watch over a boy named Claude Frollo. Many efforts were made to drive away nightmares from the past and encourage him to change rather than enforce the prejudices in the city.

A decade and a half ago, the archdeacon had commanded Frollo to take into his care a poor deformed child, who the judge, like many people would have, tried to drown. The archdeacon had been generous, allowing Frollo to keep the child at the church, so long as he kept his promise.

Now the church proved to be nothing as it should be. The rumors entered through the walls and traveled from mouth to hear and again. The archdeacon himself was disturbed by nightmares and to take over the duties he'd given Claude Frollo, who had taken a mysterious absence.

The archdeacon had never had luck talking to the boy, and most of the problem did no lie in his master. The boy was, as Claude complained, too fanciful and free thinking, not right for someone who lived in a grand cathedral. The rest of the time, it was the fault of his master, but more often, not due to any actual problem in raising the boy. So far, Claude never struck the boy, possibly because he never wanted to, or possibly because he was intimidated by his size and strength. Even if he had struck the boy out of chastening, the boy would still cling just as lovingly to the minister, which had made problems before and made problems now. These days, the boy would routinely come down from his tower to pray for his father's return, undaunted by the archdeacon's presence or sympathy.

As the archdeacon rubbed his head, not knowing what to say, for surely the boy had heard the rumors that his father had died, though they were far too numerous and hardly credible to settle on how or why, problems compounded. A gypsy woman wandered in, and The Lord knew why he'd sent her here now.

The archdeacon hurried over to Quasimodo, to place a warning hand on the hunchback's shoulder. Although, if he wanted to beat the girl up there really wasn't anything the archdeacon could do about it.

Quasimodo stayed where he was, close to the altar, but he kept his haze intently on the gypsy. Nearly every rumor about his father's death concerned gypsies. In truth, he did want to kill her just because of who she was and the warnings his father had given him about gypsies, but more so, he wanted answers.

Esmeralda made her way to the archdeacon, whose grip on Quasimodo's shoulder tightened. The archdeacon was sure he'd be bowled over backwards by the boy soon. Esmeralda did not notice any tension towards her and assumed someone must have told the hunchback of his gypsy heritage. Everyone knew Clopin's tale of how Frollo murdered a woman in cold blood on the steps of Notre Dame, surely someone had told it to Quasimodo himself.

"Miss, it is very late and even men of the church must sleep," the archdeacon said.

"Well, you're not sleeping now," she explained.

"If you are seeking sanctuary, miss, I doubt I'm needed."

"Sanctuary?" Esmeralda asked. "For what?"

"Does this mean the rumors are untrue?" the archdeacon asked, this time louder, trying to drown out Quasimodo's low growling at the girl. "All day I hear nothing but talk that you've killed the Minister of Justice."

"That is a bunch of lies!" she protested, stamping her foot in emphasis. "We would never do such a thing! We haven't seen him. We've heard he's on the other side of the cit, unwell. We've been staying away from that part. We want nothing to do with him."

"Oh, thank God," the archdeacon whispered. "Is there something you needed from me?"

Quasimodo, in a strange imitation of his father, sat down on the floor and watched the gypsy like one watches a cat they know is trying to seem innocent in order to destroy a priceless vase when you're not looking. Well, at least the boy wasn't actively looking to kill her now.

"I was told…that you could read this for me," Esmeralda said, pulling the slip of paper out, not noticing the archdeacon's embarrassed cough about where she kept it.

She handed the paper to the archdeacon and smiled at the two men. Both seemed embarrassed. After a short pause, Quasimodo punched the archdeacon in the thigh lightly. "Oh, right," the archdeacon muttered. "Are you sure you want me to read this?" he asked, after a slight glimpse at the letter.

"I'm sure," Esmeralda said. "It was a note my mother left me when I was a baby and no one in my family knows how to read. I was finally told you would read it to me. Please, it's all I have of my mother."

The archdeacon sighed. Frollo was right, it was late at night that the crazy people come out to make the most trouble. "Well, you see, there's a lot this note leaves out. I know what it's about, and I'd need to explain a lot of it afterwards."

"But what does it say?" she asked.

The archdeacon took a deep, tentative breath. "'They say that I am sentenced to be killed soon, now that my child has been born. I was taken from the one who was to be my husband and forced by a pale soldier. I bear no love for this child, but only the hope to warn my people. When I was a child, I saw my parents slain by a young man and now it is he who has given the command for me to die. I wish that someday one of my people will find an ally to read this and they will know we will be hunted by Judge Claude Frollo.' Miss, please—"

But Esmeralda was too shocked to listen to facts that had purposely been omitted. She tore the letter from his hands and ran to the back of the church, disappearing into the darkness.

Instead of reaching for her, the archdeacon grabbed Quasimodo, losing his momentum from the boy's lunge after the gypsy. Thankfully, Quasimodo had only taken a few steps before stopping for the archdeacon.

"But she'll tell them to kill him!" Quasimodo protested as he helped the archdeacon to his feet. "You said she didn't understand. You said things happened differently. We should stop her."

"She doesn't want to," the archdeacon said. "I cannot force her to understand. I can only warn the guards about her. I can at least explain it to you."

…………………

1470-Notre Dame:

Once, while Frollo was detained by a minor wound, the archdeacon took Quasimodo to see one of the many statues on the Cathedral. This particular one that he showed the boy was of Adam and Eve plucking the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the serpent entwined in the branches topped with a human head, identical to Eve. The two women stared at each other in some deep, pensive, pious way, as if awed by their own statues. The archdeacon told Quasimodo it was the same thing when Frollo saw gypsies. The boy didn't understand; he asked too many questions. What was the tree in this metaphor? Who was Adam? Surely his master would not defy God however the convoluted symbolism said he did.

'It makes sense to me,' the archdeacon thought, as the boy left, climbing his way over the carving to the safety of one of the many unknown places in Notre Dame.

The archdeacon sighed. He could not save the hopeless.

……………….

1485-Behind the cathedral:

Esmeralda ran out the back of the church and crashed ahead, desperate to keep running. The tears flying from her eyes blinded her. She didn't know where she was going, and didn't care. Her mind struggled to put things in order, to believe what she'd just heard. She was a useless, disgusting half-breed! She had _gadje_ blood in her and all this time she had never known! No wonder she'd been taken in by such a weird clan. She was just another orphan. Her whole family had been murdered and it was all because of Claude Frollo, the one person her people were forced to trust!

Still sobbing, she rand down the street and veered off the path, stabbing her feet and legs with rocks and sharp plants, injuring herself on tools left out, banging into walls and corners and signs, but not paying attention until she slammed into something that refused to let her run any further. She did the only thing she knew of, without having to return to the rest of the world just yet. She began to scream.

When a hand covered her mouth, she stopped her frantic struggles and focused. She spun around and faced her attacker. There were hands pinning her arms to her sides and someone was yelling at her. As she took in the sight of the person holding onto her, it suddenly dawned on her what he was yelling.

"You were about to jump into the river!" a man screamed at her. In the moonlight, she could make out a well-built elderly man, dressed in a fine houpeland and rich trousers. His face was tainted by wrinkles and mysterious injury, covered by an eyepatch. His curls fell almost in ringlets, highlighted in the moonlight, which did not hide the fact that his dark hair was heavily peppered by streaks of gray.

Esmeralda calmly turned to look around. As she did, his hands slowly melted off; pulling away farther and farther the longer she remained still. Beyond him, bright moonlight danced on waves of the Seine.

She turned back to him immediately at the sound of a sword being drawn. The man was looking around at the direction she'd came, as if waiting for something. "Are you being chased?"

"I… no…sort of…" Esmeralda answered.

"So I should put this back, then?" he asked.

Esmeralda nodded.

"I know you gypsies like running water, but I didn't think you'd want to drown yourself," he explained. "Am I allowed to know what happened, or is it some sort of secret magic? I did save your life, my dear, the least you can do is tell me a story."

"Why did you cover my mouth when I screamed?" she asked.

"A man holding a kicking and screaming woman in the middle of the night?" he commented. "I hardly believe anyone, your people or mine, would believe I was stopping you from drowning."

"Good point," Esmeralda conceded, sniffling. "I… it's a silly reason for me to be running. I was… I was upset."

"Must have been rather disturbing news to run out of a church instead into one."

"I never knew my family," Esmeralda said, trying to hold back sobs. "I've been an orphan my whole life and I just found out my mother and her parents were murdered and…" Esmeralda burst into tears. She couldn't go on.

The man looked around nervously. "Miss, is your camp close to here? You should go home, I'm sure you have some family there."

Esmeralda shook her head and she wiped away tears and tried to keep from crying again. "I don't have any real family there that I know of." She was just in a family of outcasts who managed to wile their way into the better parts of the community—except her, she never shared their luck—nothing but orphans who took in more orphans.

"As I recall, such circumstances are terrible for your people," the man said. "If I may be so bold, I do invite you to my own home for a short while."

"But…" Esmeralda started, then stopped to sniffle.

"I know, it's hardly an honor to take an invitation form one of my kind," the man said. "If my house offends you at all, you may leave or I can have the servants change things to your liking…er, did I say something wrong?"

Esmeralda was shocked out of her crying and staring at him wide-eyed. "I… I just learned today that my family was murdered. I'm sorry, you should understand that this all seems too…" Now she looked around nervously. There was no one around in the darkness, just him and the moonlight. "I don't even know your name and you… how do you know about my people and who are you looking for?"

"I'm a merchant... more precisely, I help merchants. I move goods and I must say, you gypsies are good at repairing wagons. I've heard plenty of stories about tricksters and thieves and worse, but the group I knew was very trustworthy and rather impressed when I paid them the same I paid anyone. They asked that I follow their customs and in exchange I could trust them to fix more wagons. But they moved on. As for whom I am looking for, I just moved here and… again, if I was found with you crying, it would rather ruin my evening."

"If you were found with a gypsy corpse… I heard the Minister of Justice is sick and on the far side of the city."

"Is he?" the man asked, cocking an eyebrow. The man turned around to the road behind him and bent down to a small girl standing behind him.

Esmeralda almost stepped back in surprise, then remembered the river. She had not seen or heard the girl at all. She had been entirely focused on the man.

"Were you telling silly stories to women again, grandfather?" the girl asked.

"Grandfather?" Esmeralda asked. She wondered why she could smell a faint scent of fire nearby, but decided it was someone's trash in the street.

"Yes, I was telling very boring stories," the man said to the girl. He took the girl's hand as he turned back to Esmeralda and gave a small bow. "You are free to join my family if you wish. If I did want to get rid of you, I'd hardly invite you and I'd certainly not stop you from drowning in the river. It would hardly do to have a corpse around my granddaughter and at the very least I'd go to the trouble of offering you a ride just to run good, expensive sheets. Then again, if you truly refuse, I won't stop you."

Esmeralda thought about this for a minute. She considered the child and the man. She considered Claude Frollo from the letter and down in the Court of Miracles and not in Paris. She considered the man and those she'd left behind.

"What are your names?" she asked.

"I am Arthur Riddle, and this is Lavande de Lilas," the man said, his hand on the girl's head.

"My name is Esmeralda," she introduced herself.

"Enchanting."


	6. Chapter 6

_"To think of shadows is a serious thing."—Victor Hugo_

1485-Clopin's tent:

For once in a long time, Frollo felt warm and safe. Everything had been washed away and he couldn't remember what he'd missed in the first place. His dreams, this time, were flashing colors and sparkling nonsense. Slowly, the parade of amusing ridiculousness faded away to moodless black and after hours of being content with nothingness and a sound sleep, Frollo finally awoke from an undisturbed sleep.

Without nightmares, being sick made everything slow, including waking up. Part of his brain said he shouldn't wake up, but couldn't remember why. The other part couldn't remember why he should. He waited with his eyes closed as his brain tried to make up it's mind. Eventually Frollo opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing his head. "I think I'm sick," he muttered, realizing his stomach didn't share the happy, fluffy ignorance with his head and had other opinions.

"Yes, well, we knew that already," said Clopin, who was standing right next to Frollo.

Instead of jumping back, as usual, Frollo just stared. Frollo knew he should be thinking something he wasn't thinking about the gypsy and trying to remember made his head hurt worse.

Clopin smiled. You could almost hear the wheels in the minister's head creak as they slowly spun. "A bit groggy, I take it. That'll wear off."

"Oh, it's you," Frollo muttered. Clopin didn't know which of them he was talking to. "Where am I?"

Instead of answering, Clopin watched Frollo wobble and then fall backward, groaning the whole time.

"I feel nauseous," Frollo complained.

"Just stay like that, the feeling should go away after a while," Clopin said. To him, this was the most amiable he'd ever seen the minister. It was quite fun and he didn't want to miss any of it. "Just stay like that and eat something after the feeling goes away."

Frollo mumbled something incoherent, groaned, then coughed for a while.

"Well, you make sense now, that's an improvement," Clopin said. Frollo was still coughing and from the pained look on his face, was slowly remembering details of the last several days. "When I came back you were mumbling away all kinds of gibberish. You thought five was a color. You seemed quite happy about it, though."

Frollo groaned again, hoping Clopin would go away and let his headache subside on its own instead of making it worse. Clopin didn't understand and so pushed onward in his endeavor of having a mildly civilized conversation with the man.

"All this time you had no idea what that song was about, did you?" Clopin asked. "Don't get agitated, it's just a lullaby. Really. Walking around, thinking it's wonderful that the wolf is sleeping. Then you meet him and ask him what he's doing. It goes on like that. The first time he's adjusting his shirt, the second time he's putting on his shoes, the third time he's sharpening his knife and he says he's going to come after you. Where in the world did you hear it?"

Frollo attempted to sit up again. He was sick, starving, and scrambling not to topple of the tail end of an unfamiliar high of having been drugged. His brain was missing things, such as which way was up or most of his motor skills. He failed twice at shoving himself up and at one point he had to wait for the room to stop spinning. The pretty colors that had been so amusing hours ago were now laced with threats, fear and memories returning to their posts and the fact that he was nearly immobile was rushing them to his side.

"Here, calm down," Clopin said, offering his hand to the confused minister.

Frollo stared at the hand as if he wondered if it would bite him. With bad coordination, Frollo reached out and grabbed Clopin's hand. Clopin pulled Frollo up, his other hand on the man's back, but pulled away immediately as he tensed up at the touch.

"Sorry," Clopin said. "Just stay calm." The good news was that the drugs were wearing off. The bad news was that Frollo was remembering how scared he was of everything around him. The former could really mess with the latter. "You're looking a lot less blue than you were before," Clopin said, desperately fishing for something to say.

"My head hurts," Frollo said, just as desperate and searching in a different pond for ways to make Clopin stop talking.

Clopin had spent years perfecting his theatrics, making his voice that tantalizing, disorienting sound that was entertaining at parties, but he had never learned how to turn it off and so the gypsies trusted him, following his mesmerizing speeches, but for Frollo, it felt like someone was hammering nails into his head, intending to hang a picture on them. It was a happy, almost delirious voice with a sinister edge, as if every time the man talked he was far too happy for anyone's good, and was about to bring out a knife or a noose and have a little fun. Frollo didn't doubt all of this was fun for Clopin, but he was tired of wondering at every sentence as to whether he was in trouble or if the gypsy was just bored of him and wanted to kill him anyway.

Now memories were coming in clearer. Things he had forgotten were now creeping up behind him and laying tendrils on his shoulders and sneaking down his clothes and were sinking into his skin. Now that he could remember them, the thoughts of hitting his head on a doorway, of chains and torture in the dark, of being dragged and drugged began to accompany everything the gypsy said, just like before he'd been given the strange concoction.

"Your head hurts because every time I asked if you wanted something you thought I was going to feed you to mad dogs," Clopin said, this time without the candy-coated sinister pitch. "You're free to go get yourself killed any other time, but either you're going to eat what I give you or I'm going to hold you down and shove something down your throat. Just stay here and… well, you're not going to get very far even if you tried, are you? Just try to calm down."

Clopin left and Frollo wondered what was going on and what he was going to do.

…………………..

1485-Badeau's house:

While Claude Frollo sat and waited for shadows to attack him and deal him a final blow, Esmeralda slumbered while surrounded by silk and velvet, damask and brocade. While he dreamt happily of silly things, she tossed and turned, dreaming of red eyes of demons and the cruel laughter of ghosts.

The irony missed all of them, but was there none the less, minding its own business. Meanwhile, news of an end that had been, in some strange way, poetic justice, was flooding Paris. Windows were flung open, people were running into the street, neighbors were screaming at each other. Everyone wanted to know more, but sadly, nobody knew more than the single word that had woke all of Paris: "Murder!"

"Oh really?" commented the man by his window. It was an expensive window, pure glass. The news didn't bother him. He knew already. He moved shifted his eyepatch and rubbed the scar under it.

He went back to cleaning a knife.

_"Estoy afilando mi cuchillito.  
¿Para qué?  
Para matar a mis ovejitas  
¿Quiénes son tus ovejitas? ¡Ustedes!"_ His singing was mangled by his thick French accent, but the words sounded beautiful as they carried over to the room adjacent where a lonely gypsy slept.

………….

1485-Clopin's tent:

Clopin returned, setting a bowl of steaming liquid in front of Frollo, who seemed to have finally mastered sitting up, though was still having trouble with the concept of calming down.

"Just sip it, it'll help your head," Clopin said, sitting down in the clear space of the tent. He wanted to look like he was going to stay where he was, but he wanted to be able to get up in case Frollo continued to fuss over eating gypsy food.

Frollo sniffed over the bowl. "What is it?" he managed on his dry throat before soaking it with wet coughing.

"Chicken broth and willow bark soup. Nothing else," Clopin answered. "The last one's to help your head. It's not going to do anything weird to you."

Reluctantly, Frollo picked up and the bowl and gracefully, yet apprehensively, imbibed it, slow spoonful by slow spoonful. He did indeed still think he might be fed to wild dogs or whatever equivalent the gypsies had planned, but it felt like his throat was being slashed at by red-hot blades, his head felt like a cobblestone in a busy street, and he didn't like feeling weak and disoriented around gypsies. Eating their food was a lesser of their evils. It also made Clopin shut up momentarily, though he didn't like the idea of making the man happy about it.

"I was at… what's the word for it?" Clopin spoke up after a while. "I guess it's similar to parliament from what I hear. Lots of people yelling at the same time and somehow you actually decide on something. We kinda had something like that about you."

Frollo paused and eyed the gypsy, waiting for him to move. After nothing happened, he went back to eating.

"We're not going to kill you," Clopin said, rolling his eyes.

Frollo didn't feel any better from the statement. In fact, it made him feel worse. He knew first hand how many things people could live through, and how many things were fatal and yet weren't 'meant' to kill the victim.

"I know we make no sense to you, but just remember: you may not like any of it, but we cured what no one else knew how. I'm going to explain this to you as best I can. You people baptize children to make sure they have a chance to go to heaven. We baptize them to protect them in a similar fashion. We believe the devil will send demons after the child if they are not baptized. If they do not kill the child outright, they will use the child to kill those around them. They will send illness and insanity, sometimes even other demons to those around the child. If that is the case, the child must be killed immediately or cleansed through baptism."

"I've been baptized," Frollo retorted. How dare they insult him like that?

"Our ways are different," Clopin said softly, noticing Frollo's anger. "We never considered a _gadje_ could have these demons. We call them _tsinivari_. Fabiana believes that is what is causing your… you would call it 'bad luck.'"

"I am not possessed!" Frollo yelled, ignoring the pain in his throat and how little volume he managed. "I have done nothing to earn the devil's voice!" At that he paused. He remembered Fabiana's song. He had called it the devil's voice. He had passed out as she began singing and woke up to it as well. He had wandered into a pack of gypsies and somehow survived just before, and then he was tortured. They had followed him all this time. One gypsy after another, one haunting disaster after another, their eyes watching him from the shadows, slashing at his mind and soul whenever they could lure him into their darkness. They had cursed him.

"We don't plan to do anything to you unless you ask. Calm down," Clopin said. "We do not, ever, baptize _gadje_. For that, you would have to be accepted as one of us."

Now Frollo felt sick to his stomach. He set the bowl down and shoved it away with his foot. He was right. The gypsies were after him. They had been conspiring all his life, trying to drag him away to their hellish lair. They were demons. They had cursed him. They had finally captured him and this was their plan. They wanted to wear away at his will, take everything from him until he couldn't fight anymore and seduce him to their own side. He didn't want to be one of them. He didn't even want to be near them. These weren't allies. These were monsters. They'd been sent by Satan himself.

Frollo's skin was on fire from fear. He could barely catch his breath. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears. He'd never felt such nausea in his life. What was happening to him?

Clopin bit his lip. Frollo looked worse for his reaction than he knew and Clopin hadn't anticipated anything this bad. He was shaking again. He was shaking, but only very slightly, when he woke up. Now he was practically vibrating with fear. He was sweating, creating an eerie shine over his face in the lanternlight. His eyes were wide, as if he thought he was in the dark, and his pupils were tiny against the white irises. He had panicked and in that flush of terror, the dying drugs incited it into something worse. He was so afraid he was probably going to hurt himself. "Don't do that, now—" he said as softly as he could and leaned forward, reaching for Frollo.

"Don't touch me!" Frollo yelled, frantically shuffling towards the entrance of the tent.

"Alright, just calm down, none of this—" Clopin said, holding his hands up close to him.

This time Frollo didn't yell anything back. This time he scrambled to his feet and ran out of the tent. After that, very little made sense to Frollo. He remembered shoving Oroitz out of his way as he crumpled to the ground, overtaken by nausea. There was a hand in his short hair, holding it tightly and close to the scalp. Another hand was under his waist, holding him off the ground as he vomited over and over again, the paroxysms assaulting his chest and the bile burning his throat.

After nearly choking on a long bout of dry heaves, whoever was holding him pulled him backwards.

As the hands pulled back, Frollo shoved himself away, crawling backwards as he took in what was happening. There were voices everywhere, and fire from at least two dozen torches. The gypsies had been startled by his yelling and sudden sickness and were coming out of their tents and away from their fires to watch. Children and most of the women were herded back into the tents as only the brave slowly approached, each person wondering what was going on and trying to get a good view without actually going near him.

Again, thousands of gypsies were watching him, but back then, the court had been lit up like the day. Now, though, was when most of the demons slept. Their faces were lit up by fire and hidden in thick shadows, barely wearing anything but their radiant jewelry and shining blades. It was just like what he saw in his nightmares. In front of him was Clopin, nothing but a shape cut from the darkest black, a shadow that had never seen light.

"No, please, no more," Frollo found himself pleading. He backed away again and tried to get to his feet, but Clopin lunged out like some animal and fiercely grabbed his wrist. Caught in mid-action, Frollo fell back to sitting on the ground.

"If you are really this afraid of us, Claude, the last thing you want to do is run," Clopin spoke, a sharper edge to his words than on his blade. "We rarely have strangers down here, let alone guests. We do not allow anyone to run away. Ever. We stop them before they take two steps."

Frollo didn't notice that tears were slipping down his cheeks, two golden glowing lines in the firelight, shining out of the shadows that Clopin had chased him into, as they appeared to the gypsies.

"Don't cry, please. I didn't mean for you to cry," Clopin said, both the edge to his words and the sweet, deceiving cheerfulness gone from his voice. "Here, I'm going to let go and you won't run away. Then I'll back up and you stay where you are, how's that?"

Frollo nodded immediately, before the gypsy changed his mind about sparing him.

Frollo couldn't see Clopin in the shadows anymore. He was some sort of invisible monster, hiding in the darkness. Everyone else got monsters with shining eyes and glowing teeth, why did he get the invisible ones? Everyone else's monsters were creaking wood or branches or tricks of light. Why did his have to be real?

Clopin's hand slipped away and Frollo's arm fell limp, his own hand hitting the rough ground. He could hear Clopin backing away, but that didn't mean anything to him. Clopin could be anywhere in the darkness.

"I'm going to have a little talk with Esmeralda about this, I promise," Clopin said from straight ahead in the dark. It was comforting to Frollo to know he wasn't sneaking up behind him, but not comforting to hear the man talk, especially directly at him. "Everyone who could guard you was at the _divano_… parliament. It's not that we couldn't trust you, it's that we can trust you. We knew you'd run away once you discovered you were all alone. Esmeralda… did not inherit Fabiana's skills at medicine. She gave you opium, a lot; not actually medicine. She didn't tell me at first and by the time she did, you were asleep and laughing at gibberish. This is what happens when it wears off too fast. I promise I had no idea what Esmeralda was doing. Here."

Something soft landed in front of Frollo, from the sound of it. Cautiously groping around in the dark, Frollo found it to be a clean handkerchief. He began to wipe his face as thoroughly as he could, suddenly stopping when he realized he hadn't heard Clopin's voice for several minutes.

Sighing and curling his knees close to his chest, not caring what the gypsies thought, Frollo tossed the handkerchief to the side. The smell and taste of vomit was still strong. His throat stung, his head still hurt. His chest ached; he felt like he'd been pummeled days ago and the bruises were just starting to heal. He was still slightly nauseous and what made it worse, the taste of food—or something close to it—reminded his stomach what it was there for and now he was hungry as well. He was weak and his whole body was tired. But all that just reminded of what was worse. Ever since he understood where he was, he was convinced he would never go home again. He'd never see sunlight or have clean clothes or a nice warm bath or any privacy ever again. He was a just some toy for the gypsies to bat around and every day he was terrified of them anew.

Now he was barely dressed, he stank of vomit, and was huddling in the dark. He'd been crying in front of his captors, he had begged them, he had accepted gifts of pity after he had felt utterly broken. Where was his promise that he made long ago? Where was his determination, even after having been seared by a branding iron, to face death with dignity?

Sadly, the recognition of his lost courage in the face of thousands of enemies caused him to bury his face on his knees and sob.

………………..

1475-Steps of Notre Dame:

His name was Jakob. He was not much, but he treated Esmeralda wonderfully. He was a baker, and he gave her fresh rolls one their secret meetings on the edge of town. He gave her little rolls and buns covered in sugar and honey and said her name softly. He showered her with flowers in the spring and said he wished he had more when they were gone.

He was wonderful, but he was a _gadje_. They were fools. They were monsters. Sometimes they were human, but their filth and barbarism won out in the end.

She hadn't seen Jakob in weeks. He could not be found, even at his home or his shop. Then, one day when the spring was back, there were no flowers. He was wandering the streets with a _gadji_, a disgusting French woman.

Esmeralda followed him the whole day, choking on a growing bitter taste as she watched him give the girl flowers, admire her flat hair and say her name softly. He gave her treats covered in honey and worst of all, he said he was happy were to be wed.

Esmeralda waited until it was dark and all the stars shone down with no help of the moon on the couple's parting. At last she approached him.

She did not ask questions. She had her answer already. All she told him was that she wanted to go to Notre Dame with him, acting oblivious to his actions.

He agreed, for her hands were on his chest, her fingers rubbing slowly, trying to memorize the feel of his skin through the fabric.

One last night with him, that was all he needed.

………………

1485-Badeau's house:

"You!" Esmeralda yelled at Arthur, storming out of the guest bedroom. She had found a dress, black with golden trim, laid out on the bed for her, but her note and dagger had been exchanged for it, which was the reason for her screams.

Arthur had the dagger in his hand, twirling it from handle to blade and juggling it, catching it by the hilt and repeating the amusing act. He turned to Esmeralda and noticed how her shoulders were too wide for the dress and thus it was lower and not as tight as it was meant to be, thus showing a lot more flesh than intend. He threw his head back, shaking his curls, and laughed at her appearance.

"Give them back!" Esmeralda yelled, stomping over to them. Her fists were clenched and her eyes were on his, contemplating who would win if she tried to take the dagger by force.

"Ironic," Arthur said, the amusement gone form his voice. He looked out the window. The shouts had gone with the night, but if you watched closely, people would stop and chat apprehensively with anyone they passed by. "A gypsy accusing me of theft. That is quite backwards now isn't it?"

"I said 'Give it back!'" Esmeralda yelled again.

Arthur stopped tossing the dagger. With his free hand he pulled her note out of his pocket. "Next you'll be accusing me of murder."

Esmeralda just grew madder, her teeth clenched, her shoulders tight, her nails digging into her palms.

"Those gypsies I told you that I knew," Arthur said. "One day they packed up and left… with everything of mine."

Esmeralda backed up a step as Arthur shifted the dagger in his hand, holding the hilt as if he was about to use it, not play with it.

"Now, you are going to sit down at the table and eat. You are going to listen and then you are going to talk, in that order. Hopefully we can come to an understanding and we can keep your sharp little friend out of this conversation as much as possible." Arthur gestured to the table across the room, laid out with breakfast.

Esmeralda stared at the table for a few minutes before resigning to sit down. She moved her chair loudly and tried a few things, spitting out samples of the fancily cooked eggs and the sweetened jam before deciding the scones were not only edible but delicious and ate two or three at a time, crumbs spilling everywhere. Arthur seated himself quietly across the table once he saw she was eating.

"You don't understand," she said, spraying crumbs across her plate. She wiped up the crumbs and her face with her napkin embarrassedly.

"That's debatable," Arthur said. "But right now I want you to listen and see if you understand. Now, this blade of yours…" He took out the dagger again and moved it around in his hand, demonstrating different grips and angles. "Very well made, nicely sharpened, but hardly anything you would kill someone with if you're short of time. You'd have to… shall we say, spend a lot of time with the victim to get close enough and that can lead to… certain complications. Where did you get it?—Er, you seem to have…" Arthur was suddenly struggling for words, not for eloquence, but out of embarrassment.

Esmeralda looked down and blushed as she took her napkin and shoveled a small pile of crumbs from her squished cleavage. There certainly was one advantage to the dress, nothing could slip into the bodice—although this meant there were two things nearly slipping out. After hiking the bodice up half an inch, Esmeralda answered the man. "My… uncle gave it to me. He's not my real uncle; he was adopted by my grandmother."

"Not a thief then?" Arthur asked, mildly impressed.

"No. In fact, it was a gift," she said.

"He is very skilled, then. Now, moving on." Arthur carefully set the knife down on the table in front of him, respecting it as a family heirloom. "This letter. You were running away from the cathedral with this in your hands. Now, I am not familiar with you, but I do know a bit about the man mentioned in it. I can't say I'm too fond of him. A personal matter, involving the death of a girl I knew. I did not know he became a judge."

"He's the Minister of Justice now," Esmeralda interrupted, this time remembering to swallow her food first.

"Is he? Then he must not deal with gypsies much anymore."

"Actually, he's very active, unlike most ministers—so I've heard. He hates us and likes to run us out or arrest us," she said angrily, nearly spitting a stray piece of pastry.

Arthur made a sound of being impressed again and fidgeted with the piece of paper between his fingers before continuing. "You cannot read, can you?"

"How did you know?" Esmeralda gave up on the scones for a while. The banter between both of them was too short to manage any food, plus she'd already eaten nearly a dozen and he was acting a lot less threatening. So far.

"A guess," Arthur said, catching his gaze falling from her eyes to her crushed breasts, which were again nearly escaping from the bodice. "I assumed the note was what you were running from, given that it was in your hand. You must have just learned what it said and if you did, you couldn't have read it on your own."

Esmeralda just nodded.

Arthur's eyes darkened as he set the folded note down, just as carefully as he had the blade. "What exactly do you plan to do—more precisely: do you intend to take revenge on Claude Frollo, whom you said was sick on the other side of town?"

Esmeralda was silent this time.

"I see," Arthur said after some time. "Not that stupid. Well, I did tell you he was no friend of mine or my family. If, perhaps, I offered to help?"

Esmeralda glared at the man the way a cat glares at finding the entertaining hunt was just put on by you for laughs. It was too good to be true and it knew you were going to laugh the second you went for the bait. Best to let you suffer as well than have fun at your own expense. "Tricks work both ways. I know what you're like. You offer gypsies something for free and then you demand payment, too much for us to afford and too much to ask for in exchange for the help you give us."

Half of Arthur's mouth twitched in a smile. "My, there are so many things you could teach my girls… but that's for later, isn't it? You have determination I admire in anyone, lady or not. Not to mention wit. Let's negotiate, shall we?"

……………………

1475-Steps of Notre Dame:

Esmeralda's lips pressed against Jakob's.

One arm was around his hips, her hand falling lower and caressing him through his pants. Her other hand was around his neck, pushing his face into hers. She shifted the dagger in her hand, familiarizing herself with the grip.

Finally, squeezing her courage and the hilt, she brought her hand around his neck.

………………..

1485-Court of Miracles:

Frollo's sobs had dissipated and now he was praying. Oroitz understood none of it and waited, patient as a stone, for Frollo's morbid curiosity to get him and for the man to look up at him.

"Please don't hurt me," Frollo whispered. He couldn't see any other reason why the giant gypsy was staring down at him, torch in hand.

Oroitz stood and watched him, far more intently than ever before, studying something about him and making Frollo squirm under his gaze.

At last Oroitz made his silent decision. He sat down, leaving a comfortable distance between himself and Frollo, and smashed the torched into the ground so it stood upright on its own.

"Not hurt Claude," The huge man said in very broken French. He crossed the distance between them with a huge arm and ruffled Frollo's hair gently. The gesture only lasted for a few seconds and he pulled his hand back.

Frollo just stared. There was more to this. Oroitz wasn't leaving, the gypsies weren't going back to their tents, and no one was trying to herd him anywhere yet.

"_Lobo,_" Oroitz said, gesturing to Frollo.

"I… don't know what that means," Frollo said. This couldn't be good. The only person who could give him an ultimatum for his safety didn't know French. "What do you want?"

Oroitz shook his head. "Wolf," he said, gesturing to Claude again.

"No, I—I mean, yes—whichever you want," Frollo answered. His reply was answered with Oroitz furrowing his brow and the gypsies giggling. "I don't understand."

"Understand…" Oroitz said, as if demanding it.

"I… I can't."

Oroitz tilted his head. "I understand," he said, again demanding something. Before Frollo could contemplate what he wanted, he grabbed Frollo's hand and held it gently, barely gripping his wrist at all. Oroitz pointed to something far off in the distance and waited for Frollo's reply.

Frollo squinted and followed Oroitz's finger.

As he stared and tried to make out a dimly lit shape, he tried to pull his hand free, only for Oroitz to squeeze, hard enough to almost crush his fingers and let loose once Frollo stopped struggling. It was obvious that if Frollo tried to leave, Oroitz would yank his arm out of its socket before he was on his feet. Now that Frollo wasn't trying to free his hand, Oroitz was doing little more than warming his skin.

Returning his concentration to the object in the distant dark, Frollo came to recognize the familiar shape. It was a gibbet, strangely alien with more than one noose and towering taller than the one used in the Place de Grave. "You're going to kill me?" he asked desperately, immediately turning to Oroitz.

Again, Oroitz reached over and ruffled Frollo's hair, petting him like a dog. It lasted for no more than a second to keep from scaring him. "Not kill Claude."

Suddenly it dawned on Frollo what the man was trying to do. He didn't know French, but he wanted to learn. All the gypsies knew Spanish and for some reason never thought they needed to teach him. "Fire," Frollo said, seeing Oroitz point at the giant flame of the torch.

Oroitz happily nodded.

French lessons. Not the worst punishment to suffer, but he didn't understand how it fit with what had happened. In fact, he didn't know specifically what he'd done, but he was just sure he was going to be punished, given the amount of attention the gypsies were giving him.

"Story," Oroitz explained.

"You're going to tell me a story?" Frollo asked, wondering how much French the gypsy already knew.

Oroitz nodded. "Kill gypsy. Is _mulo!_ Wolf. Not kill Mulo. Fire _ojos_!" Oroitz's free hand shot in front of Frollo's face, making the minister flinch. Two larger fingers, one tracing softly under each eye, passed over Frollo's skin and the hand left.

"Eyes of fire?"

Oroitz nodded. It was clear the man was listening almost entirely to tone, rather than words. Yelling at him to remove his trash and accusing him of murder sounded the same, so he'd take your hand—or head, if you made him really annoyed—and he'd have you show him what you were talking about.

"_Mulo_ is _Diablo_! _Mulo_ hurt gypsies. Mulo kill gypsies. Claude hurt gypsies. Claude kill gypsies. Claude is wolf. Fire _ojos_."

"But I—" Frollo tried to protest, then gave up. How could he defend himself against the gypsies? Especially when the one he was talking to couldn't understand a dozen words? If you tell the story that way, yes he was a demon or a devil after the gypsies. Even his eyes glowed like fire now and then, his pale irises sparkling or catching fire from a torch or the red veil of his hat.

"_Mulo_ hurt Claude?" Oroitz asked. "Not wolf?"

Frollo nodded, not sure how else to answer. Had dead gypsy demons hurt him? Very definitely. Had he seen things with fangs, had he heard growling behind him, did he see eyes of fire in the shadows? Yes.

"Claude story?" Oroitz asked. "Gypsies hurt Claude. Story."

"But you—" Frollo started to protest.

"I understand," Oroitz said. Frollo wondered if the man knew his thumb was rubbing back and forth over his hand and just what it meant if it did.


	7. Chapter 7

1460-Birthing tent:

Humans are basically animals. They can be cruel and unforgiving as anything else in nature.

Amelie sat on the bed in the birthing hut. She had been secluded for months during her pregnancy and two weeks afterwards, just like before.

She had bore four other children before, two stillborn, one dying before baptism, the other falling sick and dying before its second year. This child had at first shown its own ill-omen, making her go into labor months too soon. But so far he showed no signs of illness. In fact, the child seemed not only healthier than any other baby his age she had ever seen, but was healthier than she was, given her exhaustion and blood loss.

She smiled as someone moved the flap of the tent aside and wandered in. It was hr husband Jean; today was the day she could finally see him, after so many long months of quarantine. She set the swaddled child on the ground.

Joseph pulled out a short knife, readying himself for the ritual to accept his son into his family. He pressed the tip of the blade to his finger as Amelie sat up, eager to leave and take her child home. Suddenly, Joseph remembered the fate of his previous children and knelt down, worried that the child might have been taken from him already. As his hand touched the baby's cheek, its eyes fluttered open and he drew back.

Humans are basically animals. They can be act out in desperation over their young as anything else in nature.

"What?" Amelie cried out, not knowing she was attracting attention of others outside the tent. "What did you do to my baby?" The poor boy was alive and healthy and warm when she set him down. "Give me my son!"

"The child is a demon!" Joseph said, pointing the knife at the child, who began to scream. "His eyes! Have you seen his eyes?"

"Don't you dare hurt my child!" Amelie screamed. This was her first healthy baby. She had no other family but the baby and her husband. Sickness had claimed most, jail and the gallows the others. She had fought for her other babies, she was not going to let anyone, even Joseph, take this one away. She could not fight illness or keep her child strong, no matter her will to keep them alive, no matter what she'd sacrifice. This time, this one time, it was going to be different. She reached behind her, desperately trying to find something in the tent besides the soiled blankets.

"Don't you dare hurt my child!" she screamed, grabbing the rock holding down one corner of the tent from under the fabric and swinging it as hard as she could. Her baby was not cursed! It was her child, her precious child. She had suckled the babe for no more than two weeks, watched him sleep and sang to him and now he was worth more than her own life, easily. How could the tiny, beautiful baby she had held against her naked breasts be a demon? She had looked into his eyes many times and all she had ever seen was the desire for her never to leave him.

"My baby is not a monster!" she screamed, striking him again with the rock, not noticing that he was lying on the blankets now, not moving. "Don't hurt my baby!" she screamed again, holding the rock over her head.

She tried to bring her arms down again, but she could not move. She tried to scream, but she was interrupted by her stomach heaving. She could taste blood in her mouth and feel it dripping down her mouth. She began to feel pain in her chest. Looking down, her arms still held above her, she saw Joseph's knife stuck between her ribs. What was left of her clothing was stained a hideous dark red.

The pain began to grow and her vision began to darken. All Amelie cared about, though, was her baby. She could hear him screaming somewhere.

"D'n' hrrgh my b'by…" Amelie mumbled, collapsing.

Humans are basically animals. They can be kind and sweet as anything else in nature.

"Fabiana?" Clopin asked, carefully moving his hands from Amelie's wrists to the rock and carefully taking it away. Amelie slumped to the floor.

Fabiana, holding the howling baby in his arms, shook her head. "_Tsinivari_," she whispered. The child had been taken by demons. They had come for the parents, not interested in the baby, unlike all the others Amelie had born.

Fabiana shushed the baby, rocking it in her large arms. The baby missed its mother, unable to find her and having been abducted by a stranger. However, the rocking motion was calming and the stranger was warm and holding his protectively against her warm bosom and he was growing hungry and she seemed perfectly equipped to solve that problem. He looked up as the stranger and Fabiana smiled at him.

The baby smiled back. His eyes, each a different color, twinkled.

…………………

1485-Oroitz's tent:

Claude found himself wandering around the gypsies' camp, lost. Everywhere he went, the gypsies looked up from what they were doing and watched him, returning to their work when he passed. No one came near and he did not go near them. He kept walking, somehow feeling he was wandering deeper into their territory. He could hear laughter from the puppeteer, but he couldn't see him. The sound circled around him, back to front and then behind him again. He tried to turn around, but suddenly found it impossible. Someone grabbed him from behind, holding him in place. He could feel the thick arms of Oroitz wrapped around him, pinning his shoulders in place. He could feel the man's hot breath on his neck, blowing through the short hairs on his neck. Facing forward, no longer trying to see the gypsy behind him, he saw the one in front of him. He gripped the arms around him, but found himself powerless to pull them away. Clopin was there, reaching for his forehead with two fingers. The puppeteer traced a cross, upside-down, upon his forehead. Frollo felt something hit his cheek and then something was on his lips and creeping into his mouth. He could taste blood.

Frollo woke up, breathing heavily into a pile of clothes used as pillows. Strong, thick arms were wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in place. His was holding onto two limp hands, crossed at the wrists in front of him. He could taste blood.

Frollo shrieked, realizing there was something on his cheek.

There was a great shifting, like an earthquake, as Oroitz moved behind him, pulling his arms away.

The thing on Frollo's cheek slid away and Frollo sat up, wondering what was going on, the last of his dream leaving him, the same way one realizes they are not falling not due to their pillow, but due to landing on the hard floor.

The first thing Frollo realized was that his terror was uncalled for. The thing on his cheek had been a strand of long hair of Oroitz's. Whatever trick the man had done with his hair to make it disappear, the gypsy was not performing it while asleep and a long, thin mane fell to the middle of the man's waist, free to shift over his chest as he stretched.

Frollo touched his lips with his tongue, embarrassed to find he'd bitten the inside of his mouth in his sleep.

Frollo's guilt disappeared as he took in the sight or Oroitz as he stretched out. Unlike most gypsies, Oroitz was more intimidating in bright light. He looked even bigger than before, and the tight iron bangles and piercings in places other than just his ears somehow reminded Frollo of the wrong end of some things in the dungeons of his Palace of Justice. The man wore nothing but his pants, which barely reached halfway down his thick calves.

He noticed the tent he was in was different than the one he'd been staying in and it contained more beds, one occupied by a small sleeping goat. The tent smelled strongly of people, herbs, and fire. The other thing that dawned on him was that his was in his hose and undershirt; his clothes had been bundled up and used as pillows. Three questions arose: Where was he? What had happened? And was the giant gypsy going to eat him or do something similar?

None of these were answered, or at least not in the long-run. Oroitz grabbed his own pile of clothes that had been used as a pillow and left as he put his shirt on, the rest of his things under his arm.

Almost immediately after Oroitz left, a loud argument started between him and Clopin, with a few other people joining in, seemingly for fun.

Frollo stayed where he was. He was confused enough already and wandering into several gypsies screaming in Spanish would take away what little sense the world was already making.

Meanwhile, the other occupant of the tent decided to have its turn at telling Frollo what to do. The goat opened one eye and contemplated Frollo as he started to fasten the ties on his doublet. The goat stood up and stretched one leg at a time, before trotting over to Frollo.

"Um, hello…" Frollo said. Well, you could talk to a dog or a cat or a horse and they would know what you meant at least slightly. Did goats bite? Were they territorial? How do you know what they want? Was there any point to talking to it? "Uh… good goat. Down," he said experimentally.

Either obediently or greedily, the goat butted against Frollo to make him lean back and crawled onto his lap. The goat curled up and promptly fell asleep, its little hooves jabbing into his legs.

The ovine was obviously lonely, missing whoever owned the cold, vacant bed on the other side of the tent. Watching the creature's legs twitch and its short tail wag happily and smack his chest, Frollo wondered if he felt like pitying the creature or envying it.

………………….

1474-The Well:

Family is everything to gypsies. Family is identity.

When his mother had her entire clan—her entire family—slaughtered before her, she lost who she was. She was no one without them. Even after that, she was still no one until she had been given a family. To be given someone else's family was a prized gift.

He had been named Oroitz, meaning memory, for a reason. He would be the one to remember for his mother how the _gadje_ had betrayed them, how she had rescued another one of them for a reason not even she could understand. He was to listen to stories and remember them. He was to know all the stories of the past and learn from them. He was to use what he'd learned to protect his people.

He was an orphan with no real parents. He had no ties to anyone. He could not choose sides. He listened. Soon he was chosen as bandolier of the entire group. He would know the laws and the past and the stories and he'd know exactly what to do to settle arguments and solve problems.

However, if he was going to be important to the gypsies, in fact, if he was going to remain a gypsy at all, he needed to solve one of his own problems, and fast.

Family is identity. Creating family is maintaining it. He'd been very successful at protecting what family he had. He worked for his mother; he kept an eye on his sister and loved her as though the taint and distance in blood did not exist. He even cared for his older brother, who was not truly part of their family, but knew Fabiana more than his own true mother.

Creating more that was his problem. At least his siblings had excuses. Clopin mourned his old wife and was busy helping care for the group as well as her child. Esmeralda was as unskilled as her mother at keeping house, which just gave the rest more work. No one wanted to pay money to bring the child of a dangerous _gadje_ into their home.

His reason was something far different. He could not understand the idea of staring at a woman—no matter her shape or age or even the color of her skin—and conceiving he idea of… conceiving. He wasn't interested in women that way. His eyes roamed over men, particularly the foreigners. In either culture it was a sin to fulfill dreams like his, no matter the future he wished to have if he ever managed to find someone to spend the present in his bed.

But there was another solution to his problem… or at least one of them.

In a year, Clopin would find his favorite story to tell the young children, and a perfect way to anger the future Minister of Justice. As with all history, there are details one side leaves out to color the others as distinctly good or evil.

One detail, which could drastically change the color of any story it was mentioned in, was that the well in front of Notre Dame was famous among midwives, who spread the legend of it to the unfortunate, the mourning, the desperate, and anyone else who'd keep their secret. Claude Frollo had already heard of the legend of the well in front of the great cathedral and its powers and felt that so long as no one poisoned the water in their panic, he did not need more work.

Oroitz had yet to hear of the legend, but chance, stealth, and his own desperation led his to it. He had wandered the streets near the cathedral at night, hoping to spy someone placing a baby in the wooden cradle for unwanted infants. This night, he found a lone mother, carrying a child not even a day old. Ducking behind a statue of a saint, Oroitz could not read the holy words written on one of the bricks of the well, and he could not understand the words of French the people spoke about the well, but he understood perfectly what the fate of the child would be if he did not step in immediately.

The woman had the poorly swaddled child raised directly over the water and was readying herself to thrust the babe underneath as she read the words inscribed on the brick. Easily Oroitz snatched it from her hands and covered her mouth.

He held the baby to his chest as it began to cry and hoped she understood. He took his hand from her mouth and at first she felt threatened by his size, but Oroitz pulled a few coins from his pocket and handed them to her, staying where he was and still holding the baby close.

The woman reached out and tentatively put her hand in his, slowly closing over the money. His hand did not move until hers had left with every one of the coins.

She stopped him as he turned to leave. She baptized the baby by pouring a tiny amount of water over the child's forehead. By that time the baby had fallen asleep, content and warm in Oroitz's giant arms.

A year from now, the archdeacon will stop Claude Frollo from drowning another child in the same well, only to force the man to raise the child on his own. The archdeacon already knew the legend of the well as well.

The legend says a priest blessed the water and inscribed the words of baptism in one of the bricks. As the waters wash away the guilt of the people that came before all others, the legend washes away the guilt of the people that came before the child. The legend is about salvation a world beyond, and is told by those who believe there is none in this one.

…………………..

1485-Oroitz's tent:

The gypsies were arguing again. This wasn't new, but it was disturbing. Frollo had no idea what they were saying in their rapid, garbled Spanish.

What was new, though not quite as disturbing, was that Frollo found himself trying to dress with a goat sitting on him and trying to eat the laces of his doublet.

The argument was calmer this time, almost as if no one wanted Frollo to hear, but they didn't want to stray far from him and did want to be heard over the other person. At last the argument not only ended, but ended in French. "Not Aube!" Frollo could hear Clopin complaining. This was followed by someone yelling 'can't pay her price, you definitely can't pay his!' Frollo would have ignored this as the gypsies being crazy if it hadn't been followed by loud laughing and chanting 'What's the Minister's price?'

After a minute of wondering what was going on and what more trouble this meant for him, part of the tent was shoved aside and someone entered with a tray of food… and they were very definitely not Oroitz.

While Frollo contemplated the new gypsy—they had to send him a female, they just had to!—Djali finally gained the upper hand and chewed his laces as much as he could.

This gypsy was strange, compared those he'd seen before. Her appearance was just as wild as the other's, but her skin wasn't quite dark enough to be a natural gypsy. Her eyes were a soft green, dusted with yellow, and her hair was a dark red, like rare and expensive wine. Her hair was her most interesting aspect, a familiar dark red, flat against her skull, and soft. Nothing like any gypsy Frollo had ever seen… save one. He wondered if any of the other gypsies knew of the resemblance.

Seemingly, she had no idea what he was thinking, other than that he hoped she wasn't going to hurt him. She smiled and set the tray in front of him.

"That's not for you!" she said, grabbing Djali as he shot out of Frollo's lap and tried to dive at the food. "Out!" She smacked the goat as she shoved it out of the tent.

Frollo wondered what to do. He felt awkward, not fully dressed. He noticed gypsies tended to have a very limited view of the term 'privacy.'

"I heard you're not fond of women," she said, turning to him, but keeping her distance at the entrance to the tent. "I mean: less than men when it comes to gypsies. I'm sorry. My name is Aube."

Frollo blinked at her.

"The food's for you, you know," she said. "It's not poisoned."

Frollo looked at the food. He didn't want to accept gypsy gifts. He didn't want to owe these horrible people anything. He didn't want to have to be thankful to murderers.

Then again, his throat burned, and his stomach ached from having just remembered the nourishment it could be given. While a primal part of his brain was still telling him to be afraid, another primal part of his brain was waking up and adding its own opinion. Eventually, hunger won the mental battle; turning fear in on itself in wondering what would happen if he did not eat anything. To refuse food in a gypsy's home was an insult, and he already had enough trouble being their guest.

On the tray was a cup filled with what appeared to be milk, a pitcher, and a basket with a cloth loosely wrapped to keep the some small biscuits warm. Frollo tentatively picked up the cup and sipped it, returning focus to the gypsy girl as she moved about the tent, sitting down on a bed across from him.

He took in her unusual appearance as she adjusted her skirt around her, spreading it out full circle. Just like nearly all gypsies and lower peasantry he'd seen in the streets, she was barefoot, her soles toughened and calloused, her toes stretched long, having adjusted to curling over cobblestones for balance. Frollo hadn't paid much attention to indications of anyone's strange habits. Despite his job, he preferred to keep out of other people's business and in lieu of people disappearing into thin air he pretended they weren't there in the first place. However, ever since he was young, he found himself attracted to details. Anything that defined itself as unusual he would stare at and work through the many intricately learned gears in his brain until he was sure he knew the exact history of small brooches, rips in tunics, scars, or even odd stains. Her feet were sprinkled with old burns, different times of her life having showered her with sparks. Her skirt showed similar signs of mistreatment, but Frollo could see no signs of the fire having been intentionally inflicted.

Already Frollo could tell there was something missing from her appearance as a gypsy, and it was not just her blood-born heritage. She was not just a native disguising herself as a dark traveler, but her costume was imperfect, like the sheepdog pretending for a moment that it is one of the flock, but the white fur still stands out against the wool.

Unable to yet come up with what was missing, Frollo kept watching the woman. At first he assumed her triangular apron was decorated with a dark fringe, but she proved him wrong as she untied one single straight strand from it and took out a spool of old thread from a pocket. The fringe was a set of sewing needles, most likely each just as sharp as the one she had taken off and began to patch her skirt with, the needle sliding through the skirt and a swatch as if they were liquid.

His eyes were drawn upward as she drew the thread tight. The muscles in her arms flexed and pressed fiercely against her tanned skin, eliminating his thought of the girth of her arms being nothing but childish fat. She was nothing but strong, animalistic strength, honed and tamed into a patient human practice of delicacy and precision. Suddenly she seemed more gypsy than ever, having mastered confusing him into a new mental knot, as if her whole soul had been made to draw him in and trap him in a labyrinth and if he weren't so suspicious, he'd think she was completely unaware, just the way it was with all gypsies. The way she moved, the thick, strong, angular muscles moving in a pounding, rhythmic motion was nothing short of masculine. And yet, even with the pair of bodies holding her small breasts against her strong chest and covered by a jerkin, she was only two dull eyes and a mottling of scars away from a sylph.

So far, she was doing nothing intimidating. She was acting polite, especially for a gypsy. No strange languages, no threats, no demands, no fire… not only that, but despite starving himself, his sickness, and the paranoia that came with it, was going away—though was nowhere near gone, and had reminded him with chills since he woke up and a coughing fit in the middle of his current thoughts. The effects of the opium were gone as well, leaving him as calm as he was going to manage in what so far seemed the safest corner in the insane asylum the gypsies called a court.

Frollo stopped the cup against his lips. He suddenly recognized the smell of the liquid in the cup. When Quasimodo was still a squirming babe, Frollo had bribed a midwife for tips in rearing the thing. One trick had been to mix some wine into the milk, sometimes to add honey as well to get the child to drink the concoction. Frollo had never tasted the stuff himself, but it had worked perfectly in keeping the baby quiet and asleep most of the day, but now he realized he'd been sipping a stronger version for several minutes.

He set the cup down and studied the food, feeling a fool for trusting the mysterious woman just because she had said it wasn't poisoned, especially after last night. He hadn't been paying attention in the slightest. She never said it wasn't drugged.

As if she could hear the pieces falling into place in his mind, the woman reached over and plucked one of the biscuits from the basket. She continued to ignore him, which he was grateful for, as she ate the biscuit and shook the crumbs out of her skirt before she resumed patching it. However, he wasn't as pleased as he realized he'd halfway fallen for another humiliating gypsy ploy when he realized the biscuits were covered in sugar. 'Guest' must mean 'toy,' Frollo decided. He'd been humiliated by being kept in chains and ragged blankets, ordered around by a lunatic who was drunk half the time, and finally by being tempted by milk and cookies like a child who had thrown a tantrum. Peace offering or not, growling stomach or not, Frollo did not want to be treated as if he were two.

"Is something wrong with it?" she asked, suddenly stopping in her sewing and looking directly into his eyes. Just then, Frollo realized how much he liked being ignored.

"Um…" he managed. Was he going to get in trouble by answering, or would he be rewarded by being left alone the way he was when he spoke of Annette? He knew what Clopin wanted, but he didn't know what she wanted. In fact, he didn't want to know why she was here.

"You're allowed to talk," she said. "It'd be easier if you did."

"But…" he started. "I got the impression this was like an inquisition. I thought if I just did what you told me, it would work out best."

She sighed, exasperated. "Clopin did not explain things to you very well."

Frollo refused to respond until he felt he had a cue to do so.

Aube realized he wasn't going to start a conversation if he wanted to warn someone something was on fire in the camp. "You honestly don't understand any of this, do you?" she asked.

Frollo shook his head.

"It would be easier to answer you if you asked questions first," she said. "In fact, we'd rather you asked anything you felt like."

"'We?'" Frollo asked.

"Me."

"Why?"

"Because everyone here has heard of what happened in Rouen and Calais. Everyone even suspected of being a gypsy was arrested, even a few poor merchants. Most of those who survived jail were turned over to inquisitors and murdered. The others were tortured, and half of them executed and the other half were driven out of the city. In Calais, men like you ride out and set camps on fire, leaving the people to starve and freeze. We haven't heard any of these stories from other gypsies. We've heard them from the _gadje_. They're happy we're being driven out."

"I don't like you around here either," Frollo said. He felt rather insulted that the English were doing better at getting rid of these people than he was, and he was in charge of the greatest city in all of France. At least Aube didn't seem to be teasing him over this fact to his face. "It is hard to trust people who have tried to take down both my horse and me with branding irons and pokers."

"You are _gadje_," she said. "Your laws are not our laws. We are not supposed to follow your laws. We are not supposed to like you. You are not supposed to like us. We would rather help you than die. Badeau does not have such an offer, nor does he think you are smart enough to find a way to be satisfied with any kind of alliance."

That was it. The gypsies did not want to admit they were waiting to see where he'd lead them and consequently were trampling his feet to keep the secret. Or maybe they wanted to play with his head even while in the danger they said they were in.

"Why am I being fed like a child?" he asked, contemplating the milk again before coughing. He was losing his voice and the wine had calmed his lungs, plus he was still hungry. He'd barely consented to drinking water while staying with Clopin and it was twice as long since he'd had food that would stay where he put it. Still, it felt wrong that he was being treated the way he treated his adopted son when the boy was barely more than an infant.

"What's wrong with it?" she asked.

"I'm not one," he grumbled. "and I don't like playing this game."

"Is that why you woke up screaming?" she asked, finally staring at him. "We just wanted to calm you down from last night. We did not know… you people only did such things only with children."

Frollo hadn't thought much of Oroitz's reasons for sharing a bed. Strangers would be sent to share rooms sometimes in hotels, regardless of how many beds the room had. Adults still kept up the practice for heat or comfort with friends and so long as they were not of different sexes or in the church, it was not considered anything to worry about. Clopin's worries were not unfounded; many people who never had children thought it was dangerous for someone small in comparison to sleep with a much larger companion.

Tentatively, Frollo took one of the cookies and slowly chewed on it, watching her ignore him as he did. He had never felt comfortable eating sweets, even when his sister tried to share them with him. It always seemed demeaning to him. With his father off in the war, he was the only man in the household and he was supposed to defend the two women around him. With each failure, he felt worse and worse going near anything remotely childish. He hadn't eaten cookies since he was six, and so he worked his way through the pastry awkwardly, loving the bready taste, exploring the sugar mixed in with it, resenting the sting in his teeth it caused now and then, all the while fighting down the urge to shove the morsel in his mouth and devour it like a crazed dog.

He intended to ask Aube more questions after his stomach quieted, but once he felt the refreshing feeling of eating, he found himself finishing off three more before he could again concentrate on conversation.

"We just thought you could use the… comfort," Aube said, still watching him. "Especially after what happened last night."

Given that she had no idea that one was supposed to treat innocent children very differently from sin-worthy adults, Frollo decided not to ask her to stop looking at him. He didn't know where to start explaining how he felt better when he thought she wasn't paying attention when she obviously was.

"What did happen last night?" he asked, picking up the milk again. By now, the flavor had changed; it was still good, the wine keeping it from spoiling and becoming inedible. There were significant gaps in his memory of the night before. He remembered Esmeralda and Clopin and Oroitz. He remembered vomiting and accusations of being possessed and claims that he was a monster. He remembered he was given a chance to prove one of these was false. He remembered Oroitz's story, but couldn't remember his own or why the man had talked to him in the first place. He did remember thinking he was going to die at least once, but he didn't know why.

"You passed out in the middle of talking about your sister. You said you left for a university, before collapsing. Oroitz asked you about _mulo_ chasing you. Everyone wants to know what else happened."

"Why?" he asked. He'd had enough of people knowing his past already. It had taken years for people to forget the accusations of treason, and moving to a new city had been a blessing. For the last fifteen years, Frollo had been looking for an excuse to arrest Clopin for telling stories of his past in his puppet shows. He didn't want anyone chatting about him. The law was not something to chat about and he wanted to be given peace and quiet, a birthright he had yet to be owed. "I don't like telling stories."

"Stories are what we understand best," Aube said. "We don't read. We don't write. No one will teach us and no one will let us. Why wouldn't stories be important?"

Frollo decided his best tactic was to glower at her until she decided to respect him. Needless to say, it worked better when he was dressed, armed, riding on a giant horse, and had soldiers at his beck and call.

"It's important to you for some reason," she said. "That's why you don't want to tell any of us gypsies."

"You're not a gypsy, are you?" he asked. He wanted the conversation to end now. Blackmail, threats, attempts to get favors in trying to convince him he owed them somehow… He barely trusted them with the knowledge of his name.

"Oroitz took me in," Aube said, leaning closer forward, letting her hoped earrings fall forward, intentionally letting Claude notice the bent lines of metal jingling on the iron halo while half hid in her hair. The other earring had different ornaments hanging from the hoop. The adornments looked utterly alien until he realized what they were, and then the earrings looked perfect embedded in the flowing hair of a gypsy, more perfect than the hoops of gold a thousand other gypsies had been seen with. "Ever since I was little, he's been my father and the gypsies have been my family and clan. I live by those rules, not yours. I am a gypsy. I heard you had no family, and sometimes you change the rules you've been told. Perhaps you are not truly French?"

Claude kept silent as he returned to the food. Gypsies, no matter the intentions, were still gypsies. The still gave him reason to hate them.

……………………

1450-Frollo Manor:

It was the coldest year of a cold century. Rich and poor, food was scarce and heat was even harder to hoard. Beggars froze on the street and no one wanted to leave to drag away the bodies. People starved themselves into sickness and death to afford to keep their fires alive.

The cold made Claude's mother worry about something else. Even though she bribed the servants to keep silent about it, she fretted over her only son growing up to be a good Christian. The cold had chased Annette from her bed and forced her mother to share her bed with her daughter. But if Annette, who was desired by suitors since she was ten not only for her beauty, but for her appearance of good health, was freezing in her own bed, poor skinny Claude would soon catch his death alone in his own. Claude had been in good health since he was born, a trait of which his mother had always been proud. But he was thin and gave an appearance of a delicate doll left on a shelf too long, looking worse when compared to his elder sister, who was wider and heavier than her brother looked like he ever would be, but it all amounted to the appearance of strength in her body, able to take the ills that could catch in a second, especially after childbirth, and survive easily and gaily.

Claude's mother had felt that no servants could be trusted not to corrupt her little boy, but that made her situation worse. She stayed up worrying about him for hours as she held her sleeping daughter in her arms. At last she could not bear the thought of losing her precious son and her only dignified means of support. She rose from the bed and slipped her arm from under Annette, who had not woken or stirred at her actions, and went to Claude's room. Despite violently shivering under several blankets, the boy was fast asleep. His mother shook him awake and pulled him from the bed by his arm before he could ask her what was happening.

She had led him to her own bedroom, where Annette had finally woken up. Their mother gave him a fierce speech of not letting devilish wants have their way with him, for there was no way they could be forgivable in bed with his own sister. After that, she had shooed the boy under the covers without letting him say a thing about it.

No one, not even his loving sister, understood that Claude was the only boy in a household of two older women. His father was still off fighting in the war, and Annette had finally managed a betrothal worthy of her status a month prior, but the man wanted to use her dowry to pay off debts before they were officially married and so the whole arrangement was cancelled and her mother's standards in a son-in-law were raised even higher. Claude was finally deemed smart enough to handle the family's finances of the many buildings they rented to businesses and tenants, but Annette, who had more schooling, was in charge under his name. The only thing he could possibly understand as he began growing like an awkward weed was that he no longer wanted to be known as a boy, but as a man, despite the lack of skills or strength or even attractiveness.

Claude had made up his mind and silently watched and listened to the world outside, not just the one inside. Not even he, as observant to details as he was, knew exactly what brought the wolves. Perhaps the creatures had dug up the shallow graves on the city limits, perhaps someone had tossed a vagabond, either dead or not quite there, outside of the gates, perhaps someone was desperate enough to poach for firewood when it was far too late for them. Regardless of victims or faults, the winter nights echoed with loud howling. The days were dark and the nights were black and Claude watched from his windows, seeing nothing for weeks until he finally saw it, the vision sending a chill of numbness through his scrawny body, a wolf: a spectre from a cruel world beyond his, the anarchy that tried to find its way into the city and into his soul like a shadow sneaking up behind him. The creature's sleek body had been worn away by hunger and a very human madness into dark and distorted mirror image of a pale boy barely more than bones put together in a way that resembled an unskilled creator working in darkness before they had created light to aid them.

In those glowing yellow eyes with inhuman pupils focused on him, he would remember the humanity in the giant creature as paws the size of his head threw him to the stone steps, smashing his shoulder and elbow in front of Notre Dame. He would remember just how human the look of a cornered creature that had unwittingly forged its own inner anarchy out of fear and need staring into his own eyes. He would remember how easily he found stores of strength no one expected of him by forgetting everything that made himself one of the masters of the world and instead feeling nothing but a burning heat as his free arm guided itself as it brought the rock down on the wolf. He was numb to everything but the feeling of watching an animal with a tormented human soul of a dying saint, fighting to the last vestiges of their doomed life, be smashed away by his first feeling of strength and control.

He could only watch as something brought the rock down on the creature repeatedly. He could not wonder about it, nor could he stop striking it with the rock until the heat died away and he was exhausted.

A member of the watch pulled him up and helped him to the hospice, abandoning him to a man who could do nothing more than wash his wounds and bandage him, none of which he noticed until the next day when the pain would carry his mother's and sister's echoing words for a month. Finally he realized what had driven him outside into the snow, armed with a large rock he'd stolen from a goat and barely managed to keep his prize. He knew, as he walked home with a sudden and virgin feeling of elated pride, what had taken hold of his arm and smashed the wolf's head before it could tear at his face. He'd fought against demons, real demons, in fur and flesh, not from himself, but from his family. For the first time he saw himself as powerful and standing at the head of his family and the women as small and fragile. He had fought for their safety, not his own, and that was the undiluted duty and spirit of a real man. He'd achieved not just his own freedom to protect that of others, the taste of justice in selflessness, but the very feelng of holding honor in his arms, knowing the indescribable texture as he held it close and pressed it to his thin chest.

But when he got home, honor writhed in his arms to get free, and he had to break its neck and stash the carcass of his own merit as a man deep inside and never let others near to shed light upon it and burn the corpse to ashes and shame. His mother screamed and stuck him hard, telling him he was forbidden to do anything so stupid again. He did not understand what was stupid, but her words stung worse than the bleeding welt on his rear.

That was all his mother said to him until spring, not thinking much of her deluded and unfortunately made boy in the first place and thinking less of him having sprayed a heathen animal sacrifice all over his fine clothes, which she had burned later, thinking he wasn't watching while never being skilled at being quiet or closing doors.

Annette came to his room after he left the hall, not knowing what to think of himself after his mother's tirade. Not even his sister could say anything to heal his shredded sense of worth, despite how much comfort she'd offer years later after being thrown from his dream as a soldier. She said she was afraid for him, that he was all she had was him and wouldn't know what she'd ever do without him. It would only be the day that she lay dead in his arms that he'd believe her. That would be the day he would let himself cry over failure. That would be the day he understood how hopeless she really was and how damned they both were.


	8. Chapter 8

1456-Notre Dame:

Claude couldn't remember how he got here, which was odd, for he often visited Notre Dame. He had, in fact, planned to do just this: sit in the pews, later today, perhaps at this very time. But his plans never included the death of his sister. They were supposed to visit the market and then sit and chat. She had hoped he could meet her new suitor and greet the priest that had been her friend all these years.

Now he was sitting alone on the pews, recovering from sobbing all over a priest. What a disgrace of a man he showed himself to be on the day he returned to Paris; he had even failed in appearing for his mother's funeral a year before.

A hand gently settled on his shoulder from behind. At first, Claude thought it was the priest returning to see him. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claude."

Claude turned around at the sound of a new voice, falling off the pew as he noticed who was trying to keep him seated with their hand.

Crawling backwards, Claude stared in disbelief as he watched the man draw his sword. The eyepatch covering the scar, the tight natural ringlets of black hair, the boy who had once tried to have him killed twice had returned, and was again bent on putting shining steel straight through him.

……………….

1483-Oroitz's tent

Aube left with the tray after Frollo had finished off the food and the milk. Neither of them had exchanged anymore words since he'd taken insult from her words.

Unsurprisingly, after he'd finished dressing, Oroitz came into the tent, carrying Frollo's things, completely clothed as well. Gypsies seemed to know timing, whether good or bad. Frollo noticed that Oroitz was wearing a hat, easy not to notice when hoping the man wasn't going to make your head a stain on furniture.

Having solved that mystery, Frollo stayed where he was, sitting on the makeshift bed once more. There were other beds, presumably belonging to each of the women in the family. He didn't feel comfortable sitting on any of those.

For a moment, the gypsy stood in near the entrance and considered him. Frollo didn't like that. He never liked it. He barely tolerated soldiers and servants doing that, and didn't like native French doing that. He hated gypsies watching him, waiting for him to do something and making plans on what to do based on his reactions. He liked them either too afraid to scheme or pretending he wasn't there.

Noticing Frollo's unease, Oroitz wandered over to the minister and sat down in front of the man. Oroitz placed the minister's hat on the man's head and adjusted it before speaking. "_Lo siento_"

"Um… yes?" Frollo answered. He hoped the man didn't want something from him. Or, if he did, it was small and insignificant and would be explained soon.

"_Te amo_," Oroitz said.

"That would be one way of doing things," Frollo replied.

For a long time, the two men were silent, staring into each other's odd-colored eyes. Just as before, Oroitz knew how long it would take to scare someone away. "Claude nice," he whispered, touching the man lightly on the chin with the back of his knuckle. Then, as if nothing ever happened, Oroitz went to sit on one of the other beds in the tent. He took off his jerkin and pulled a dark button and a needle and some thread from his pocket and set to mending the jacket.

Thankful for being ignored—as ignored as he was going to be—Frollo tried to think. If he ever managed to get out of this disaster, he was well in another. Badeau had the annoying habit of thinking things through and having an escape plan when something unpredictable happened. Only the gypsies and the dead men knew his sickness was planned. Who'd listen to gypsies, especially with such a fanciful tale?

Either Badeau was searching the other side of the city and noticing he wasn't there, or he'd seen through that lie already. Perhaps he didn't care, making plans for when he came back or making sure he'd never come back alive at all.

Badeau didn't just plan ahead, he plotted sideways. He did things behind your back so that when you did run into him, he had made a mess too big to get through to get to him.

Somehow the gypsies got entangled in his plot. Badeau merely killed, contracted, and blamed someone else. The gypsies broke your world into pieces, leaving you no longer with a right and a wrong, in the dark fathoms where the apple's wisdom could not reach, but where there was no Eden. On all sides was a threat and a blame, but nowhere was there the turn to even see God reaching out to you to show you the way he planned to keep you on the path of virtue and trust he'd made for you. The gypsies took all certainties and absolutes from you and let you flounder, like leaving a blind rat in a maze to walk into walls, taunted by knowing beyond them lay freedom.

These were the demons who had started it all, who had led to everything he cherished and prized being torn away and leaving him feeling empty inside and frightened outside. They had brought this curse upon him and they had given him their fiendish ultimatum: to join them in order to wash it away.

He could not trade being a hunted man under God for safety under the tents of demons. No man who valued his soul would make that choice. He would not become one of them, a murderer, a thief, a shameless vagabond and forced to embrace their heathen ways.

He suddenly focused on the dark button Oroitz was fastening to his vest. Suddenly, Aube and her father were more convincing gypsies than any he'd ever seen before. Suddenly, yet another devastating revelation hit his head and his thoughts fell into pieces again, leaving him to clean them up now that they'd never fit together. These weren't allies. These were the most dangerous gypsies there were; they were the most secretive and cunning outlaws in all of France.

"You've been stealing iron!" Frollo exclaimed. It was right there. It was right in front of him. She had the metal dangling everywhere and he was fastening it to his clothes. If gold went missing, the entire city stopped to find the culprit and see them hanged. But if iron, just a few specks of iron went missing, it meant someone had swept the shop. They probably swindled it from others, buying broken tools off of fools.

Oroitz stopped in his sewing and laughed. This time, both of them knew he was laughing at Frollo. Oh yes, he understood. But how would Frollo catch him? You can't steal what no one wants. You can't prove these buttons and needles aren't ours. Besides, you're down here where no one can hear you, no matter what we do.

Oroitz ceased laughing immediately as he noticed Frollo was almost pouting, taking the reaction the wrong way. "Claude?"

Frollo's expression looked as if he had just swallowed one of Aube's needles. "I don't want to be a gypsy," he pleaded. These gypsies would do whatever they wanted and death would not stop them, not until every gypsy was dust buried in the ground. "I would honestly rather die than be a gypsy. Do you understand any of this?"

"I understand," Oroitz answered slowly.

Claude sighed in relief as Oroitz finished off the thread. Oroitz threw his jerkin on and stood up, which caused Frollo to suddenly watch him intently an uncomfortably. The gypsy wandered to the front of the tent, turning to look back at Frollo, who just watched and waited, like an old, kicked dog keeping an eye on one's shoes.

Oroitz turned and left. Frollo never knew how much his demands hurt the only man who gave him Solace in a place he thought was warmed by Hell just underneath.

………………..

1456-Notre Dame:

Badeau had left. Claude had survived. Only his last-minute wits had saved him.

The deacon stuck him across the face, which was surprising for a man who seemed so weak. Claude just stood there. He had sinned too much today. He had murdered gypsy patriots, he had failed for years to protect his sister, and now he had lied his way out of fighting in a church.

"What were you thinking?" the deacon screamed.

"What did you want me to do, let him kill you?" Claude retorted.

"To know justice is to know God, and who knows God better than martyrs?"

"I can't say they knew justice," Claude replied. This was the first time he dared disagree with a man of the church, but it wouldn't be the last, not with this man. Claude turned away and inhaled deeply. He should be going home. He should announce himself before people started looking for a will and trying to claim his family's property. He should talk to the guards and prepare for his sister's funeral.

"Your sister was a martyr," the deacon said.

'Damn, not now,' Claude thought. The truth was too dangerous at the moment. But there was no way that he'd stand for the comment. "My sister was a fool." He turned back to the deacon, but then he saw that there were powers that were so cruel not even gypsy magic would conjure it. He saw the face of the deacon, the same man who had recommended he be tutored in another city, the man who had baptized him, and was appalled at his expression. He was in love with Annette.

"I have watched over you the day I met you. It was her request."

Claude sat down on the pews. He wasn't going home for a long time. He stared up at one of the many crucifixes. The savior that welcomed souls into his arms so long as they begged for forgiveness every day for the sins he died for, and Claude knew what it was to be damned.

………………………………

1483-Away from Claude

Oroitz called a Divano. It was his right, as bandolier, but it was shock for he hand never exercised this right before.

Oroitz had the same job--in principle and simplicity—as Frollo, and had always wanted to meet the man—on lawful conditions. Although everyone had told him to avoid the minister, everyone was frightened of what had transgressed between them. Oroitz believed Frollo only found the gypsies nothing more than what the thickest bush was to a man hunting rabbits. He happened to find the greatest amount of criminals in the gypsies and that was why he was always after them. Oroitz believed, if given the offer, Frollo would gladly police the gypsies from the inside by laws, not hatred.

Everyone attended. Had Frollo planned a strategic escape during this gathering, his only obstacle would have been the goat and a few stray chickens their owner had forgotten to lock up. What was addressed was not what was expected. For once, there was silence everywhere in a divano.

What they went to hear was Oroitz heart had been broken, that Frollo had a plan to rally the gypsies, but his plan to kill them in the process was transparent or that Oroitz had learned that Frollo was the monster they all knew him to be, even those who had never met him.

But all Oroitz had to say was that Claude refused to be a gypsy, and that he was not going to allow others to try and convince the man otherwise. Frollo was, in fact, to be left alone. Oroitz gave no reason on that matter, but everyone was convince something about the minister scared him, some truth hiding in what dark shadow passed as the man's soul had been revealed to him even while hiding from Fabiana's powers.

But then, if he refused the cure, what else did they have to offer him? What could make him care about their survival as well as his own? He needed their numbers and they needed his planning or no one would survive this fight. He'd never consider their help without incentive, and now it was lost? Were they just as lost? What could make him care?

Oroitz said he would solve that problem himself, but no one was to confront the minister without the man's permission for it to work.

Then it was put to a vote by those in charge of the Divano. Fabiana, the drabardi and elder voted against. A man who was elder when Clopin's parents moved in voted for. Clopin voted against. Oroitz voted for. Aube was not an elder and her father's position did not give her privilege; it was the objects and what they were made of that gave her the poser over the Divano, although she never spoke a word. She voted for. Two other men, rich merchants and strangely in good terms with the law, given the subject, voted for.

Fabiana shrugged. She didn't care for gadje much, and if they refused to be helped, then so be it. Clopin scowled. The minister was a tricky man, or he'd not have lived this long. He'd fed Aube lies, lies she'd repeated to Oroitz. He was doing this on purpose. Ever since he'd known the two men were brothers he appeased the one who didn't reign over Paris's truands. He wanted revenge for his decease sister, no doubt.

The minister was underestimating the power of the gypsies, for they have strength in numbers and allegiances are not that hard to break, he'd make sure of it.

1456-Notre Dame

The fight was erratic. Both men had lost touch with what they'd learnt years ago from their of them gained against their opponent for very long, but neither of them was about to be defeated.

Finally, something changed the course of the fight, and, as such an occurrence often happens to be, it was an act of stupidity.

The deacon came in, screaming at them both to stop.

Claude, upon instinct, turned to the man, earning himself a stab in the shoulder.

Badeau, proved where his allegiance truly lay and pulled back from the fight, grabbing the deacon and holding his sword to the man's neck. "Perhaps you'd like to repeat our last meeting, Claude," Badeau said. "Exactly who will save you this time, one of these stone statues perhaps?"

A cold chill went down Claude's body. What help had these saints offered today? The only one who would ever put arms around him was dead now. Thanks to the man threatening to kill a man of the church and blame another.

From nowhere—not even some hidden quiet, waiting part of his brain—he spoke words he'd never once thought he'd utter. "The gypsies took it already. You'd have to ask your friends."

Badeau angrily shoved the deacon to the floor and sheathed his sword. He turned and walked away, not once looking back at either of the two men.

1483-Oroitz's tent

The goat had returned. Disappointed but undaunted at the lack of food, it settled back down in Frollo's lap. Frollo didn't mind, it gave his hands something to do and as foolish as it was talking to a goat, it felt better than talking to himself. As much as he appreciated the privacy and time alone, he felt frustrated that he couldn't figure out Badeau's plans.

The only reason Badeau wanted him gone in the past was because he happened to be in Badeau's way. How was he in Badeau's way when Badeau was in Rouen? What did he do? Frollo went over the last executions, tortures and even fines he'd given last, as far as he could remember. He couldn't remember even yelling at a man from Rouen or even Calais.

Getting Badeau in trouble with the law was out of the question. He was the law, and damned if he knew where to find the man.

He had to expose Badeau. That was the most difficult thing in the world. The stone saints above Notre Dame would cry before that was possible. The only option left was to wait until Badeau became bored and decided to leave him alone… unless he was somewhere new to run to…

Frollo jumped at the frightening idea so hard the goat leapt from his lap and wondered what had gotten into him. He could not possibly use the gypsies to run away from Badeau. He could never go back on his word that he never wanted to be one of them.

"We need to make a quieter tent if you're going to stay here any longer," he heard.

Both Frollo and the goat turned to see Aube standing in the tent, the flap falling behind her, again holding a tray of food.

"I…" Frollo tried to explain as the goat danced merrily at Aube's feet, sure that this time the food was for him. What was there to explain? Especially when he was still convinced he could get into deep trouble with these people.

"It doesn't matter," she said, setting a bowl down for the goat, far away from Frollo, before setting down the rest of the tray in front of him. This time he was given wine directly, biscuits, and broth. Unable to forget the last time he had eaten broth, he shoved the tray away, with his hand over his mouth and turned away. Suddenly, he realized what an insult he'd thrown at her and slowly turned back around.

Aube was pulling the goat away from the tray with barely any success.

Frollo took the broth and set it aside for the goat, who happily lapped it up.

Aube moved the broth further away. "It's impolite not to eat any of the other food," she said.

Frollo only nodded, and daintily started on a biscuit.

"We had another divano," she said.

Frollo stopped eating.

"We decided never to make you one of us," she said.

Frollo stopped chewing on the biscuit and considered it and many other things for a while. The goat finished the broth and began bleating thanks—or demands for more—at him before he finally answered.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Clopin believes you seek revenge for your sister against us," Aube said.

Frollo set the biscuit down on the tray. "Now I'm offended."

1456-Notre Dame

The boy with the scar had become a man, a man with another sword. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claude," he said, drawing the weapon and elegantly thrusting at him.

Claude leapt back, onto the floor. He grabbed the first thing he could—one of the many candelabras—and blocked the next attack.

He backed away, getting to his feet and blocked another attack.

"If there is one thing you cannot do besides keep out of my way, it is to play stupid. Your sister had a note for me—for Calais. It's missing and I know you know where it is. If you want, you can survive all of this… just give it to me and you'll even be promoted after the new king."

The fact that it was Badeau who brought his beloved, pious sister to such delinquent and deluded acts would sink in much later, but all Claude could think of, under the roof of the cathedral to the Holy Virgin was that Badeau had dared defile his sister's corpse with his touch—the girl he felt was like the saint incarnate, the only reason he had fled here in the first place: to seek a substitute.

1483-Outside Oroitz's tent

To break the code of the Divano serious. To break the code is to kill yourself, your identity. To break the code of the Divano is to never be trusted by the group again, to be cast out, to no longer be a gypsy. You are between worlds when you break the code of the Divano. A wandering monster even the Mulo disregards.

There was a lot of screaming. No one wanted to be involved and if they could keep it that way, they ran to their homes to hide from the fight. Often, everyone allied or in the family would join a fight, taking their friend or relative's side. This time, the court was abandoned.

Claude did not know of the protection the Divano gave him. He never would understand. He knew for most of his life and would never forget: it did not take much to cross the line and abandon such protection.

……………

14563-Lilas Estate

Aurore collapsed to the floor in tears. Her sister stood over her, unemotional. Blood dripped from the knife in her hand.

All she could do was cry. For years, she did nothing but cry.

She hated herself for it, but it only made her cry more for the will she never had. The hatred stung deep, more painful as time wore on. It was a pain she began to live with.

She was smart, an educated woman—a rarity—and a married one at that…now widowed because of her own weakness. She knew. She knew for years. She should have acted. What is intelligence if only held by the weak?

She hated and she kept on hating. One day, she stopped crying.


End file.
